


Prisoners of Fate

by rangerhitomi



Series: Prisoners of Fate [1]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood, Depression, Fictional Religion & Theology, Genocide, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Political Drama, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Guilt, Rituals, Self-Harm, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:51:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 75
Words: 341,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2399075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rangerhitomi/pseuds/rangerhitomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Astral Kingdom is a peaceful land before the Barians invade, killing the king and queen and driving the prince into hiding. With the help of his bodyguard Yuma, a Healer named Kotori, and the last of an ancient race of warriors - twins Rio and Ryoga - Prince Astral flees. They seek to gather forces against the Barians, a race of demons threatening the peace of the continent, and restore Astral to the throne. </p><p>Lord Kaito harbors a scandalous secret: he and the eldest son of the neighboring kingdom have been lovers for nearly a decade. He thinks that his biggest challenge is keeping his affair a secret from his father. But when the Barians set their sights on the Tenjo Kingdom and the powers possessed by Kaito's brother Haruto, Kaito is forced back to a harsh reality he had tried to ignore. Now he needs to make a choice - is his soul worth more to him than his brother's life? </p><p>High in the mountains of the Barian Kingdom, the Seven Emperors sit as one in their conquest of the other kingdoms. But Lord Durbe and his faithful general Mizael have other plans: They will dismantle the oppressive regime and unite the Barian Kingdom. Their success will bring peace. Their failure will be their deaths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Brink of Death

The glistening white marble halls of the Astral Palace ran crimson with blood.

The sound of sprinting footsteps echoed through the quiet upper halls that contrasted with the devastation below, usually full of serving boys and girls, soldiers, and palace officials, but now empty save for one man.

His slightly heeled black boots clicked loudly with each step he took, his red-lined black cloak billowing behind him. He held a slender silver trident in his gauntleted hand, and the dim candlelight reflected off the still-wet blood that coated it.

He skidded to a halt in front of the library, the large cherry doors inlaid with emeralds, and pounded on it. A firm voice called out for the visitor to announce his name.

"Captain-Commander Ryoga Kamishiro. Hurry, there’s little time."

The door opened slowly, despite the captain’s haste, and he found himself with a sword point in his face when the door was cracked open.

"Yuma, put that away," the captain snapped, shoving his way into the room and slamming the door behind him. He stopped in front of a figure sitting morosely at a table near the ornate stained glass window, and knelt, resting the bloodstained trident on the gleaming floor. "Lord Astral-"

The figure at the table motioned with a frail hand for the captain to get to his feet. Everything about him was pale - from his white-blond hair to his colorless skin covered in shimmering, pale blue robes hanging loosely from his slender body. Triangular emerald green tattoos highlighted his sharp cheekbones and pale blue gems adorned his ears and the narrow headband hanging over his forehead. He fixed Captain Kamishiro with two different colored eyes - one a pale grey, the other a bright gold that contrasted jarringly with the rest of him and matched the triangular key hanging from his neck. He nodded at the captain’s neck. “You’re hurt.”

His voice was calm, sad. The captain raised a hand to his neck and it came away bloody. He had been only vaguely aware of it. “I’m fine, but the castle is under heavy attack. There isn’t much more we can do to hold them off-“

"Are they using the Baria Crystal?" the other man interrupted. Where Captain Kamishiro wore dark clothing and armor, Yuma wore the opposite - a white jumpsuit with red armor and boots. To the captain’s annoyance, the younger man clutched his sword still despite his order to put it away.

"Not the crystal itself," Astral murmured before the captain could respond. "Weapons… they’re using weapons made from the crystal, though. I can sense them; weaker than the crystal but still powerful enough to neutralize much of our astral power."

"Lord Astral," Captain Kamishiro began again, becoming increasingly irritated with the flippancy the two were treating the situation. "You must leave the palace. They’re here for you and if they get you, we won’t be able to stop them."

Astral’s pale eyebrows lifted. “You think I will abandon my kingdom to these marauders and murderers?”

"No," the captain said after a moment’s hesitation. "I order you to."

There was a stunned silence as Yuma’s sword loosened in his hand and Astral watched the captain intently.

"You are _ordering_ the prince of the Astral Kingdom to step aside for the Barians?” His voice sounded a combination of incredulity and annoyance. “You have a great deal of authority but even you can’t tell me how to rule my kingdom.”

The captain looked up at him, then climbed slowly to his feet. “I don’t have time to argue with you. The Barians are slaughtering everyone downstairs, they are going to break through our defenses and if we don’t get you out of here through one of the secret passages out of the palace, more than your kingdom will fall.”

"Ryoga-" the other man began.

"Lieutenant Tsukumo, I am your commander and you will refer to me as such," he said sharply, without looking at the younger man. "You are also the prince’s personal bodyguard, yes?"

"I- Of course."

"So you have to do everything I say to keep him alive."

"I suppose." Yuma saw right away where this was headed.

"If I told you to knock the prince unconscious and carry him away from his palace to a safe place where we can plan an attack on the Barian kingdom, you are obligated to follow suit, yes?"

"Wait a minute," Astral interrupted. "You propose to flee from those who would kill my subjects and threaten to overthrow my kingdom after physically attacking your prince? What you say sounds like cowardice and borderline treachery, Ryoga. I thought the last of the Dragoons would uphold the clan’s creed to never back down from those threatening the kingdom."

Ryoga’s jaw clenched but he remained silent. He simply turned to Yuma, whose sword tip rested on the ground as he looked at Ryoga with a terrified expression.

“Yuma.” His voice was softer. “There’s no more time, and there’s no chance of victory today.”

Yuma’s eyes darted between his prince and his commander. Mouthing words that may have been anything from a curse to a prayer, he sheathed his sword, darted to Astral, and grabbed him by the wrist.

“Yuma-” Astral’s mismatched eyes widened in stunned disbelief.

“My lord, my greatest duty is to keep you safe.” He yanked Astral roughly along as he followed Ryoga to the door. “Please forgive me.”

The captain peered down the empty hallway. “Something’s wrong,” he muttered. “It’s too quiet downstairs.”

Yuma’s heart pounded as he led Astral into the hall. He watched his commander gaze down the hallway for a moment before clearing his throat nervously. “Captain?”

Ryoga ripped his gaze from the end of the hallway that he had come from. “This way.” He trotted in the opposite direction, his reluctant prince and Yuma close behind. They had nearly reached the end of the hall, where it split to the east and west wings in front of a large painting of a figure covered from head to toe in gleaming golden armor, when the thing Ryoga feared would happen did.

“Ah, Captain Kamishiro! There you are!”

He turned slowly. At the opposite end of the hall stood three masked and hooded figures, one tall and slender, the second short and stocky, and the third towering over them. They walked calmly down the hall.

“Or should I say Captain-Commander?” the slender figure said in amusement. “I hear the previous Captain-Commander died ignominiously, unable to defeat her foe.”

Ryoga swore under his breath before turning to Yuma and Astral. He spoke rapidly in an undertone. “Yuma, draw your sword. Lead the prince to the southwestern tower and take the hidden passage to the basement dungeons. Follow the path.”

“What are you-“

Ryoga gripped his trident and turned to face the three Barian warriors.

“No!”

“Yuma, that’s an order!” he barked.

“By all means, Captain, let him stay,” the slender figure said in amusement. “Two against three is much better odds than one to three, isn’t it? Unless- oh!” He caught sight of Astral, half-hidden behind Yuma. “Yes, Lord Astral! What a wonderful surprise.”

Ryoga ground his teeth. “You knew full well he was with me, Mizael.”

“Can we cut the small talk?” the shorter of Mizael’s companions cut in. “I’m itching to get my hands on more of the Astral Kingdom’s power.” He rubbed the brass knuckles inlaid with small, glowing red stones on his fist, anticipation shining in his eyes.

“Durbe told us to wait until Vector gets here, Alit,” Mizael said impatiently.

“Oh, will it take four of you to get the prince?” Ryoga sneered. “Scared of him?”

“We’ve just slaughtered almost your entire guard downstairs, Captain,” the third shot back. “We will take great pleasure in slaying the last son of the Dragoons and his protégé as well, before ripping the power from the prince you love so much.” He nodded to something just over Ryoga’s shoulder. “Your parents are dead, did your captain tell you that?”

Ryoga turned his head to where Yuma stood petrified, still clutching Astral’s wrist. Astral teetered as though hit in the head with a blunt object as he absorbed this news.

“Dead…?” Astral whispered, eyes darting aimlessly around the hallway as though hoping to see them there.

“I gave you an order!” he said furiously. “Why the hell are you still standing there?”

“I can’t… leave you to die,” Yuma said in an uncharacteristically small voice.

“How precious,” Mizael said tonelessly as Alit and the larger Barian snickered.

“With the king and queen…” His voice quivered. The memory of the king dying in his arms as he made his captain swear to leave him and save his son clawed at his chest. “The prince is more important than a hundred of me.” Ryoga’s raised voice echoed through the quiet hall, cutting through the Barians’ chuckles. “I swore I would keep you both safe, and that's what I'm doing. Go, _now_.”

“No.”

It wasn’t Yuma this time, but Astral. His face was ashen and his body shook violently, but he pulled himself out of Yuma’s grip and clenched his fists.

“Lord Astral-”

“No, I won’t. If my parents are dead, I am now the king. I won’t flee without a fight and I won’t see any more of my people die for me.” Astral lifted his glowing right hand and made a cutting motion before raising his hand above his head. Ryoga made a strangled noise of protest that went unnoticed by the prince. The Barians stood stock still, watching Astral warily. “My kingdom is in peril. Rid the threat with your power! Come forth, Aspiring Emperor Hope!”

A swirling black mass appeared in the air above the Barians, who took a few steps back as they watched the warrior in the golden armor descend from it, a ten foot tall mirror image of the one in the painting behind the prince who summoned him. He landed gracefully in front of Captain Kamishiro and unsheathed his massive sword.

“Hope will dispatch them,” Astral said quietly. He slumped against Yuma, who caught him by the waist and held him up. “It always makes me tired,” he added with a small smile at his concerned bodyguard.

Mizael, who had gazed at Hope with surprise, came to his senses first. His bow materialized out of thin air and he fired an arrow that streaked with red energy right at Astral. Weakened by the effort of summoning Hope and held still by Yuma, Astral couldn’t react quick enough to dodge it, and it pierced his shoulder. The arrow shot a current of power through Astral, who shrieked in agony as the Baria crystal-infused arrow targeted his astral powers.

Captain Kamishiro dropped his trident as he cleared the short gap between him and his screaming prince. “Lord Astral-“

Astral clenched his teeth as he gripped the arrow. “Hope…”

With his summoner being drained of energy by the second, Hope slumped over, leaning on his sword.

“Nice shot, Mizael!” Alit said giddily, raising his fists. “Time to get rid of this monster.” He lunged at Hope, who managed to deflect the blow with his sword. “Help me out, Gilag!”

The large Barian’s hammer materialized in his hand as he too charged at the golden warrior. Behind Hope, Astral leaned against Yuma, who clutched his prince tightly around the waist as he held him up, eyes wide with fear with every shudder that indicated the Barian arrow was still doing its job. Ryoga put his hand over Astral’s on the arrow, met his prince’s eyes, and took a steadying breath. Gilag shouted angrily as Hope continued to deflect all three Barians’ attempts to get to the three men behind him, despite his rapidly deteriorating stamina. “Hold him still, Yuma.”

Yuma tightened his grip and squeezed his eyes shut against the scream that followed as the arrow tore from Astral’s shoulder. Ryoga ripped off his cloak and wadded it to stem the tide of blood gushing from the wound. “Yuma, let go of his waist now. You need to carry him to the unused dungeons. Cell 3. Understand?” Yuma swallowed and nodded. He held out his arms as Ryoga lifted the nearly-unconscious Astral into them. Ryoga picked up Yuma’s sword and wordlessly re-sheathed it in Yuma’s belt. 

“Go quick,” he said quietly, giving Yuma’s shoulder a small squeeze. “I’ll catch up.”

Yuma bit his lip. “Don’t take too long,” he said shakily, turning down the hallway. Mizael fired another arrow at them but Ryoga flicked his lance upward with his foot and knocked the arrow off-course. Mizael cursed and aimed one at Ryoga, who leapt easily out of the way.

A tsk echoed down the hall. “I set you on a simple task to kill the Captain of the Astral Kingdom’s Royal Guard and the prince’s bodyguard and bring me the prince, and not only did you fail to accomplish any of these, but the latter two escaped.”

The three Barians turned as a fourth masked figure strode stiffly toward them.

“Hello Vector,” Alit said stiffly, clearly not happy about this reunion.

Vector shot him a withering glare and turned instead to Ryoga, standing close to the greatly weakened Hope. “Why are you so determined to fight when you’re going to die either way, Ryoga Kamishiro?”

Ryoga lifted his trident in front of him. “I will never break an oath.” In his peripheral, he saw a blurred figure hopping silently from curtain rod to curtain rod toward them. He felt simultaneously relieved and worried.

Vector laughed humorlessly. “An oath? To a prince who has little time left, judging by the state of his summon? The least you could have let us do was to rescue his powers before he died. All that untapped power, wasted. What a shame.”

“Go to hell.”

“And will you send me there?” Vector tilted his head, eyes glittering curiously. “The score is four to two – well, four to one and a half, I doubt Hope can last much longer-“

He cut off abruptly as he dodged a slender sword aimed at his throat, causing the unexpected attack to slash across his shoulder instead.

“How about four to two and a half?” rang out a woman’s voice.

The attacker landed gracefully next to Vector and aimed another lightning-quick blow that Vector had to stumble backward to avoid. He clenched his good fist in front of him and shot a ball of energy at her, and she sliced through it neatly with her rapier.

“Impossible,” Vector spat.

The woman held up the long, thin blade admiringly. “I took this from one of your dead. A Barian blade, is it? Such lovely balance.” She brushed back her multi-hued blue hair and held the rapier in front of her. “Want to have another go?”

Vector’s eyes narrowed. “The same arrogant face, the same self-important gait. You must be Rio Kamishiro.”

“I must be,” she said indifferently. “But just because I look like my brother doesn’t mean I’m as useless as he is.”

“So much talking!” Alit interrupted before Ryoga could give his sister anything more than a stony glare. “Why can’t we just kill them and be rid of the Dragoons forever?”

“Agreed,” Vector said. “I will oversee the cleaning up of the palace and lead the search for the prince in the eastern wing.” He waved an arm and a dark portal appeared behind him. “I trust you three can actually accomplish your task this time?”

“Yes,” Mizael said jerkily.

“Then I will see you shortly,” Vector said, stepping back into the portal. As it dematerialized his body, his voice called out, “And remember that the price for failure will be steep.”

Mizael glared at the spot where Vector had disappeared for a moment before lifting his bow. “No more talking, now.”

He fired off an arrow at Rio, who twirled sideways to avoid it before jumping atop a table. Her light leather boots slid gracefully across it before she caught her left foot against the marble wall. Mizael fired again and she used the wall as a springboard and sailed through the air, rapier slicing at Mizael, who tried to let loose another arrow. She knocked the bow aside as her rapier left a light graze across Mizael’s chest, and the arrow sailed harmlessly into a tapestry. Behind her, Alit charged, fists nimbly darting through the air as Rio barely managed to avoid the impact. Gilag charged at Hope, who was starting to deconstruct, with his hammer, but was caught behind the knees by Ryoga’s trident, and he stumbled onto all fours as Ryoga raised his weapon.

“Gilag!”

Mizael fired at Ryoga but aimed too low in the chaos; the arrow sunk shallowly into Ryoga’s thigh. Despite the arrow not penetrating too deeply, he felt a powerful shock in his lower body and let out a cry of pain.

“Ryoga!”

Rio’s split-second distraction gave Alit an opening; he nailed her in her sword arm with his knuckled fist. She felt the sharp points pierce her shoulder, which cracked loudly as her rapier fell from her fingers, and screamed.

“Rio-” Ryoga’s fingers laced around the arrow and without giving himself time to brace for it, ripped it out. Blood seeped from his wound and Gilag was regaining the use of his legs as he reached for his hammer but Ryoga was beyond feeling – his sister was now sliding down the wall, face ashen, gripping her bleeding shoulder, her weapon lying uselessly on the floor next to her as Mizael drew his bow back. “No, not Rio- Rio!”

Time seemed to stop as the slowly disappearing Hope lifted his sword and brought the hilt down with a resounding crash that shook the entire hall. All three Barians were knocked off balance but Ryoga managed to steady himself with his trident as he hobbled over to his sister slumped against the wall.

“Rio-”

Mizael recovered first. He lifted his bow once more, aiming intently at Ryoga, who, in his determination to ensure his sister’s safety, did not notice.

“Ryoga,” Rio whimpered as he wrapped his arm around her waist.

Hope lifted his sword once more and swung it with all his might at the Barians. This time, the force of the shockwave blew all three back into the wall at the far end of the hall, where they remained motionless. A portal much like the one Vector had used to disappear formed behind them, their bodies dismantling into bright, multicolored dots that the portal absorbed.

Ryoga glanced at the portal in surprise for a moment before looking over at Hope, who was disassembling into his own portal.

“Thank you,” he said to the summon, who bowed his head as he disappeared. Ryoga bent down and gently touched the lightly bleeding holes in his sister’s uncovered shoulder as she flinched.

“Broken,” he muttered. His eyes swept over her tightly laced leather armor vest. “I’ve told you a hundred times that if you’re going to wear any armor, make sure it covers your shoulders and make sure it isn’t leather.”

“Shut up,” she said weakly.

“Can you walk?”

“Yeah…” She stumbled a little, but managed to remain upright when Ryoga pulled her good arm over his shoulders and gripped her by the waist. “You’re bleeding,” she said in surprise as her leg brushed his.

An intense throbbing coursed through his leg. It felt like the Barian power was travelling as an electric current through his veins. “It just grazed me. I’m fine.”

“My rapier-“

Ryoga glanced at the Barian blade with disgust. “I’m sure we can find a different weapon for you to use.”

“It’s the best blade I’ve ever handled, Barian or not.” Her pale, sweat-soaked face glared up at her brother with a strange mix of petulance and determination.

He sighed and flicked the rapier into his hand with his foot. It felt strange in his hand, uncomfortable. The pain in his leg intensified, and he bit back a groan. Like he had done with Yuma, he sheathed it for her before grabbing the trident propped against the wall. The moment the blade left his hand, the pain lessened slightly.

“Ryoga, the king and queen-“

“I know.”

“What’s going to happen to the kingdom?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. We have to get to Lord Astral and Yuma quickly, before Vector comes back.”

\- - -

Astral wasn’t a heavy man by any means. He was slender and unusually light for his height. But Yuma found as he hurried down the hidden path to the dungeons that Astral felt heavier and heavier with each step. Astral’s breathing became more labored, though the bleeding had slowed, and his face shone with sweat.

Every few minutes, Yuma would whisper to his prince, who usually responded with a small noise or a flickering of the eyes. But as they reached the cell masking the underground exit, Astral made no motion that he had heard Yuma. His body slumped unmoving against Yuma’s chest.

Fighting the panic welling inside of him, Yuma leaned his face close to Astral’s. When he felt a warm breath brush his cheek, he relaxed slightly.

“Lord Astral?” he tried again.

It was a few seconds before Astral’s mouth moved, though Yuma couldn’t make out any of the words.

“What?”

“My hand… the wall…”

Yuma looked at the grimy stone wall, such a contrast to the gleaming marble of the rest of the palace. These dungeons hadn’t been used in three generations and it was unlikely the Barians would even know they existed. “You want me to touch your hand to the wall?”

Astral’s head inclined a fraction of an inch. With difficulty, Yuma positioned Astral in his arms so his hand brushed the slimy wall.

A blue light shined behind from an outline in the wall, and with a flash, a small entrance to a passageway appeared where the wall had been. Yuma understood; the door opened only for someone with Astral powers. But-

“How is Captain Kamishiro going to get in?”

“Dragoons have Astral powers,” was the haggard reply.

Yuma stepped into the narrow passageway with a heavy heart, and the entrance sealed itself behind him, plunging them into darkness.

After nearly an hour of feeling his way down the pitch-black passageway, during which Astral slipped back into unconsciousness, Yuma finally bumped into a door. He groped for the doorknob and pushed it open.

He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this. It was a room about the size of the library with three beds evenly placed in the corner with small tables between them, a small fire grate, and several crates stacked against the wall. At the opposite side of the room was a padlocked door. Crisscrossing the ceiling were exposed pipes, some of which led out of the room, and several small vents. Dimly glowing blue bulbs hung suspended periodically along the wall, casting an eerie glow across the room, reminding Yuma forcibly of being underwater.

Yuma took Astral to one of the beds and placed him gently on it. He removed Captain Kamishiro’s blood-soaked cloak from the wound on Astral’s shoulder, which bled still, though not as much. Sitting on the table next to the bed was a small bottle and a stack of dusty cloths; this room had clearly been used as an improvised hospital in the past. He shook out a cloth, sneezing as a cloud of dust erupted from it, and opened the bottle. A foul-smelling odor emanated from it and Yuma winced. Hoping that the liquid was meant to be topically applied and not drunk, he dumped some of it on the cloth and dabbed with shaking hands at Astral’s shoulder.

It immediately made an unpleasant sizzling sound and Astral let out a whimper. The blood bubbled and hardened, forming a scab over the wound that stifled the blood. With a breath of relief, Yuma shook out a second cloth and wrapped it tightly around Astral’s shoulder. He suddenly realized how tired he was, and as he laid his head next to Astral’s body, he fell into a troubled sleep, wondering what fate befell his commander.


	2. No Man's Land

Yuma woke slowly. He was vaguely aware of Astral’s hand clasped around his wrist but more aware of the thudded footsteps headed toward them. He slid his hand free and had half-drawn his sword when the door crashed open and Ryoga Kamishiro stumbled in, supporting a smaller figure that Yuma recognized as Ryoga’s twin sister.

“Help,” Ryoga grunted before collapsing, his trident slipping from his hand and clanging on the stone floor.

Yuma closed the gap quickly and bent down next to his commander, turning him onto his back. His face was bloodless and clammy. “Rio, what hap-”

He stopped as Rio, unsupported, buckled next to her brother.

“Rio? Rio, Ryoga?” His eyes slid over Rio’s disfigured shoulder and the dried blood covering four evenly-placed holes in it. Her ashen face was taut with agony.

“It’s broken,” Rio whimpered. When Yuma tried to help her up, she shook her head. “Ryoga first.”

Yuma turned back to Ryoga. The blood on his commander’s neck was still wet, but was no longer freely trickling. A wound much like Astral’s on his thigh caught Yuma’s attention next.

“It was Mizael,” Rio said shakily. “Ryoga was about to finish off the big one – Gilag – and Mizael shot him with one of his arrows. The blood won’t stop.”

“I think there’s something about Barian weapons that prevents natural healing,” Yuma mused, wrapping one of Ryoga’s arms around his shoulder and lifting him by the waist. His commander was much heavier than Astral, especially with all his armor; it took Yuma nearly three minutes to drag Ryoga’s dead weight across the room to the bed next to Astral’s and another two to situate him on the bed. Rio was next; though since she was conscious, it was much easier to guide her to the third bed.

“You’re covered in blood,” Rio said quietly as Yuma shook out another cloth.

Yuma glanced down at his white jumpsuit, now stained crimson with Astral and Ryoga’s blood. The arm he had held Ryoga across the waist with caught him by surprise – it was covered in fresh blood. Yuma gently lifted Ryoga’s tattered shirt and found a shallow gash across his stomach. With some trepidation, Yuma began removing pieces of Ryoga’s armor until all that remained was the bloodstained undershirt. Yuma lifted it gingerly and splashed some of the ointment on the freely bleeding cut across his lower chest down across his abdomen. It bubbled and hissed before hardening the blood, leaving an angry red line in its wake. Yuma wrapped the cloth around Ryoga’s body.

“He always complains that I don’t wear armor properly, but he always leaves his torso exposed,” Rio sighed. “He says it’s hard to do an aerial attack when he’s weighted down with armor, and that any idiot could protect his stomach.”

Yuma smiled halfheartedly and glanced around for something to tie off the cloth.

“Here,” Rio offered, pulling a small clip from her hair. “This should help hold it in place.”

“Thank you.” Yuma clipped the cloth in place and went to work on the leg injury, ripping the leather around it with difficulty. After tying another cloth into place on it, he gave his unconscious commander one last glance before turning to Rio.

“I don’t… know what to do about a broken bone,” he said miserably.

She tried to smile but it came out more of a grimace. “Just splint my arm. That should help.”

He took the last cloth in the pile and folded it into an arm splint. Gently, he placed her arm in it before gently tying it off across her shoulder. She flinched violently through the process but when she finally settled back against the pillow, her face was less taut.

“What happened?” Yuma sat on the end of her bed.

“I was downstairs when… when the king was killed.”

Yuma’s throat tightened. “Who… who was it?”

“Vector,” she said, brow furrowed. “There was so much noise, people screaming and bleeding and the Barians were just slaughtering everyone, even the serving maids. He plunged his hand into… into the king’s chest. There was a blinding blue light and then…” She shook her head. “He collapsed. My brother went to him. The king whispered something and Ryoga kept shaking his head. Finally, Ryoga laid him down and called out an order before taking off up the stairs. Someone tried to stop him-“ she placed her good hand on her neck “-but he… he’s a good soldier. It didn’t stop him, even though he let out a pretty horrible cry. So I followed. I lost my rapier somewhere in the thick of battle – someone knocked it out of my hand, I think – so I picked one up. By the time I got upstairs, I didn’t see Ryoga anywhere but I did hear soft footsteps on the stairs, so I climbed up one of the tapestries and waited.” She smiled grimly. “I hardly ever went to Dragoon training with Ryoga when we were kids, so I’m not as good at aerial attacks, but I thought I might be of some help as long as I kept quiet. Then you, the prince, and my brother came out of the library.” She shifted on her pillow as she continued – how she arrived, how she and her brother quickly realized how outmatched they were, how Mizael shot her brother, how Alit shattered her shoulder, how Hope had saved them…

Yuma swallowed as he glanced over at Astral, whose breathing was beginning to normalize. After everything, Astral maintained enough control over his summon to save Ryoga and his sister…

“Where did he get his stomach injury?” Yuma asked quietly.

Rio grimaced. “We were almost to the tower when we were spotted by a stray band of Barians, four of them. They came at us, but I couldn’t move my arm and it was hard to stand as it was; I was really dizzy. Ryoga took care of them well enough, but when one tried to stab me, Ryoga took it instead. Fortunately, it wasn’t deep and he…” She smiled grimly. “He got him through the neck with his trident.”

Yuma repressed a shiver.

“By then, we were worried that the others might notice their disappearance. Ryoga was in a lot of pain, a lot more than I thought he should be from a shallow cut, but he took me to the tower. We went down the hidden staircase and into the dungeon.” She looked a little confused. “He touched a wall and there was a lot of blue light before it opened a hidden doorway. I thought he was going to collapse, but he kept going. For what felt like hours, he kept stumbling down the path, supporting me. I don’t know how he did it.”

A long silence followed Rio’s story.

Yuma finally stood, his legs shaking. “I’m going to see if there’s any food down here. When they wake up, they’ll be hungry.”

Rio watched as he walked over to the crates and began opening them. Cloaks, several changes of clothing, spare weapons, medicine… No food. He should have realized; this place seemed to have been abandoned for a few years, at least.

With a reluctant sigh, Yuma took a few bottles from the last crate and returned to Astral’s bedside. He gently opened the prince’s mouth poured a think purple potion down his throat. The prince choked some of the potion back up but Yuma held his jaw firmly shut until he saw the muscles in the prince’s throat constrict.

“My lord?” Yuma offered hesitantly, letting go of his jaw.

The pale young man stirred before slowly opening his eyes. “Yuma…” His eyes darted around the dim room. “We made it…” He made to sit up but Yuma pressed him back firmly.

“You need to stay lying down,” Yuma warned. “Mizael’s weapon drained you.”

Astral obediently leaned his head back down but glanced over to the beds next to his. “Captain? Lady Rio?”

“My lord,” Rio said, inclining her head respectfully.

“They were injured fighting the Barians,” Yuma explained as Astral’s eyes lingered on Ryoga’s stationary body. “The captain collapsed when he arrived here.”

Astral’s body tensed as he squeezed his eyes shut. “I failed, then. I failed to protect my kingdom.” He shook his head. “Yuma, are my parents… really dead?”

“Yes.”

Astral’s mouth trembled. “No,” he whispered as though saying it would make it untrue. “No.”

“It’s true.”

Yuma turned his head. Ryoga’s eyes were open now. His blue eyes were filled with pain as he looked at Astral. Whether it was physical or mental, Yuma couldn’t tell. Probably both. It had to be an unimaginable feeling of agony for it to show on Ryoga’s face.

“Your mother died first,” Ryoga said quietly. “Mizael shot her through the heart. Your father was next; Vector stole his power, ripped his hand right through the king’s chest. I held him as he died.” He lifted a hand to his head. “I’ll never forget their screams.”

Astral jerked violently at these words and Yuma placed his hands on Astral’s arms to hold him down. “Captain-“ he began furiously, but Ryoga cut him off.

“He deserves to know how his parents died, Yuma.”

“Yes, but you could have waited-“

“What good would that have done?” Ryoga demanded, wincing as he pulled himself to a sitting position. “He needs to know now so he can move on quickly.”

“His parents are dead!” Yuma’s voice was nearly a yell as he climbed to his feet. “How do you expect him to just ‘move on’ from that?”

Ryoga’s eyes locked on Yuma’s. “He isn’t the only one who has lost people he loves to the Barians, Yuma.”

Silence.

Finally, Yuma lowered himself onto Astral’s bed. “I’m sorry.”

Ryoga leaned his head against the headboard. “We all need rest. We should abandon this hideout soon, now that the Barians have control over the palace. It’s only a matter of time before they find out where we went.”

\- - -

Yuma sat at the small table in the middle of the room, his sword propped up next to his chair. If the Barians did find them that night, his sword was of little use – Ryoga, Rio, and Astral were in no shape to fight anyone or even move, and though Yuma was a skilled swordsman, he was no match for four Barian warriors with all the powers of the Barian Kingdom at their disposal. He couldn’t sleep. The events of the past twenty-four hours ran through his mind, from sitting down with Astral in the library to prepare for Yuma’s promotion ceremony to Captain Kamishiro bursting into the room, warning them not to move until he returned…

He buried his head in his hands, stifling the tears that spilled from his eyes. He was so tired but his mind refused to let him rest.

A quiet scratching of wood against stone alerted him to a second presence at the table. Yuma rubbed at his eyes as he looked into his commander’s face. His piercing blue eyes were rimmed in red but his face was impassive.

“You should be resting,” Yuma said quietly.

“So should you.”

Yuma stared at the table and shook his head. “I can’t.”

Ryoga folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. He looked strangely fragile without the armor covering his hands and shoulders. The fang that dangled from his neck glistened like glass as it caught the murky light. “I didn’t get to thank you.”

“Thank me for what?”

“Keeping the prince alive.”

Yuma forced himself to meet Ryoga’s eyes again. “You risked your life to protect him. To protect me. And I didn’t do anything more than bring him here.”

“Is that what’s bothering you? Look at me.” Ryoga dipped his head as Yuma tried to look away. Yuma reluctantly kept eye contact. “You’re angry that you didn’t get the chance to prove yourself in battle?”

“I’m angry that people died while I was cooped up in the library,” Yuma said bitterly. “That you and Rio almost died to give us a chance to escape. That I alone out of everyone in the castle remained unhurt.”

Ryoga settled back in his chair. “When Mizael shot me with that arrow,” he said softly, “the pain was overwhelming. It hurt worse than this-“ he gestured at the slowly healing wound on his neck “-and I thought I was going to die.”

Yuma remained silent.

“It felt like my body was being ripped apart. For a second, I wanted it to end. To die and be done with it. I failed in my oath to protect the king and queen. All I had left was my oath to protect their son. Even that was hopeless, I thought. But then I heard my sister. I heard her scream. And I knew I had to live, to protect those I care about. So I fought it.” His eyes darted to his hands clenched on the table. “And I will not default on my oath to the king. I will keep his son safe and I will see him retake the throne if it kills me.” He hesitated. “Yuma, I’ve always admired your _kattobing_ , even if I found it annoying at first. It’s what got me through today. Don’t let yourself get sucked into feelings of inadequacy and self-loathing again. It’s not a good place, and it doesn’t suit you. You did a great thing by saving the prince. A very great thing.”

Yuma swallowed and blinked back tears that threatened to escape his eyes. “Captain-“

Ryoga shook his head. “I’m not a captain anymore. There’s no army left for me to lead.”

“You’re _my_ captain,” Yuma said before he could stop himself.

Ryoga smiled, but it didn’t reach his shadowed eyes. “No, I’m just Ryoga Kamishiro now.” He sighed. “I’m sorry that your promotion ceremony turned into this. It should have been a proud day for you, being granted the honor of being Lord Astral’s permanent bodyguard. Now you will always remember the day as the one where the Barians murdered your king and queen and all your friends.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I will fulfill my duty to him regardless. And I will fight the Barians, to my life if necessary.”

Ryoga moved his hand as though contemplating reaching across the table to Yuma with it, but pulled back so quickly Yuma thought he might have imagined the motion. He scooted his chair back. “We should sleep. Good night, Yuma.”

"Good night," Yuma murmured as he watched Ryoga walk with a rigid limp back to his bed.


	3. Signs of Change

Yuma woke, body stiff from laying his head on the table. His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten in what felt like a day. It probably has been a day, he thought miserably as he stretched his arms and rubbed his neck. He was bone tired but had no way of telling what time it was.

As he looked across the hazily lit room, he saw the three bodies lying on the beds. Panic flared inside him. The Barian weapons, of course, rejected traditional healing methods-

Heart beating violently, he rushed to the beds and leaned down anxiously at his prince. His back was turned to the room but Yuma saw his shoulders moving and relaxed. He turned to his commander, whose face was ashen and his hands trembled, clenching and unclenching his blanket convulsively. Yuma watched him for a moment, wondering. What was he dreaming about? He resisted the urge to shake him awake and glanced at Rio. Her face was just as pallid as her brother’s and shined with sweat. She had her injured arm pulled tightly against her body as she mumbled incoherently.

He pulled his eyes away and remembered the potion he had given Astral the night before. It had alleviated some of his pain, so perhaps-

The crate where he had found Astral’s medicine was full of small purple bottles. Relieved, Yuma pulled out three more and returned to the beds. He hesitated before setting them on the side tables and scrawling a note before heading for the door opposite the entrance. They needed to eat. And Yuma was burning to know what became of his village.

—-

The tunnel connecting the hidden cavern to the outside world took Yuma nearly forty minutes to traverse. It was a narrow, low tunnel that he had to nearly crawl to get through at many points, as well as inhabited by a wide variety of spiders. He tucked his arms close to him and the lantern he carried nearly touched his chest. He wasn’t frightened of them, necessarily; he just had enough experience with them to know which were venomous, and many of these were. He couldn’t afford to be incapacitated by them, not when he had to care for the Kamishiro twins and his prince.

He couldn’t help but laugh humorlessly at that thought. There had been a ceremony prepared for his promotion to the coveted position of bodyguard for the crown prince. Perhaps it was for the best that the Barians chose early morning to attack. The shame of allowing Prince Astral to be so injured was great enough without his position being made official by the high priests.

When at last he saw a faint glimmer of light ahead of him, he breathed a sigh of relief and shoved his way carefully through a thick tangle of undergrowth. He hoisted himself out of the tunnel onto a hillside thick with vegetation, about an eighth of a mile from the well-worn forest path that he recognized immediately. It was the same path he had taken with his father many years ago when they went on their frequent hunting trips. He had never known there was a secret passage into the palace from here. His father probably had.

He slipped silently down the hill, pressing himself tightly against a large sycamore fifty yards out as a wagon rolled into view.

“…blame the boy,” a tiny elderly woman in the front seat was saying loudly to the wagon driver. “It’s a miracle he’s alive anyhow. Shame he couldn’t have got Vector before he vamoosed.”

Yuma recognized her. She was his grandmother’s best friend, a merchant from the village. If he wasn’t mistaken, the man with her was her business partner, a cranky old man who often hit Yuma’s wrists when he was younger with a broom handle when Yuma touched things inside the shop. But what were they talking about?

“I don’t think you should be saying things like that so loudly,” the man wheezed with an equally loud voice. “It’s punishable by death to insult him now.”

The woman harrumphed loudly as the wagon passed Yuma’s tree. “If you ask me-”

“Which no one did-”

“-I’d rather be executed than have to put up with bowing and scraping to those devils.” She adopted a mocking simper that faded as the wagon rattled on. “Yes, Lord Vector. No, Lord Vector. ‘Fraid I don’t know much about the boy since he ran off to join the Guard, Lord Vector, but I hope he grew enough of a pair by now to come back and put a sword in your throat.” She laughed boisterously.

Her companion made a traumatized noise and glanced around quickly before responding with something Yuma couldn’t hear. They rounded a bend in the road and their already fading voices vanished. He slumped against the tree, heart pounding. Had they been talking about him? And what was this about Lord Vector…?

He ducked out from behind the tree and took off at a quick trot toward the village.

—-

The sight of the flags flying over Yuma’s village made his stomach churn. It had been one night since his kingdom had been overtaken and already the Barians were flying their colors. He pulled his cloak tighter, positioning his sword closer to his body as several people passed him, eyes down. Several of them he recognized; the small handful that did make eye contact quickly looked away, as though pretending not to notice him. Maybe it had been a bad idea to enter the village after all. He walked slowly through the eerily quiet streets – full of people going about their daily lives as usual, but without a word to any of their neighbors. He passed a number of what looked like official notices posted to almost every shop, but he had one place he needed to go first.

He gently pushed open the unlocked door to his grandmother’s house. With a quick glance behind him, he slipped through the door and bolted it behind him, wondering what he might find inside.

Nothing was out of place. The cushioned chairs in the living area were clean and in their proper places. The surfaces were dusted, the ashes from the fireplace had been emptied, and there were no dishes in the wash basket. It was like any other morning.

But his grandmother and sister weren’t there.

He walked back to the fireplace and studied the small portraits on the mantel. The family painting he had sat through as a teenager was missing. He felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. Why was it gone?

A soft creak issued from a floorboard five feet away and his sword was halfway through a form before he glimpsed his would-be attacker and swung his sword up, missing her by inches. She, however, was not as quick in dropping her staff, which collided painfully with his upper arm.

“Ah-”

Yuma gritted his teeth as she gasped and dropped her staff with a loud clunk against the polished wooden floor before gripping his shoulder. “Kotori?”

Under the white cloak was a small woman, warm brown eyes gazing up at him with a terrified expression. “Lieutenant Tsukumo, I’m so sorry, but I thought you were a Barian with your hood up-”

He gently pulled her hand from his shoulder. “I’m fine. Physically, anyway.”

“Let me Heal you.”

“No, save your strength.” Yuma’s shoulder ached but it certainly wasn’t the worst injury he had ever had. “Kotori, what’s happened to this kingdom?”

Her eyes narrowed in confusion and she blinked contemplatively. “Yuma – Lieutenant – you shouldn’t be here. Neither should I, because they’ll know I know you if they see me, but I wanted to see what the Barians were up to and I climbed in the back window, but Lieutenant-”

“Kotori, calm down. I’m just Yuma.”

She mouthed what looked like a dozen objections to his request before flailing her arms aimlessly. “Fine, Yuma, haven’t you seen-?”

It was his turn to be confused. “Seen what?”

Kotori’s eyes widened. “Yuma, you’re a wanted fugitive.” She reached into her cloak and pulled out a rolled piece of parchment. As he unrolled it, he recognized it as being the same notice posted all over town. Each word he read felt like a punch to the gut, and by the end, he felt a chill run through his body as though a bucket of ice water had been emptied over his head.

_By Order of the Seven Emperors of the Barian Empire_

_The Astral Kingdom has been assimilated this day into the great Barian Empire. All allegiances to the old regime of the Astral Kingdom are hereafter revoked. All persons conspiring against the Barian Empire, whether through open rebellion or refusal to swear to the Barian Empire shall be punished accordingly, with the ultimate punishment of death for serious offenders. The former royal family is dead and no heir to the throne has survived. Therefore, the throne will henceforth be assumed by Lord Vector._

_Further, all persons found in association with Ryoga Kamishiro, former captain-commander of the Astral Kingdom’s Royal Guard and last son of the Holy Order of Dragoons, his twin sister Rio Kamishiro, last daughter of same Order, or Yuma Tsukumo, personal assistant to the late Prince Astral will be executed. The three are fugitives who fled the Astral Palace after attempting to murder the new emperor. All persons with information regarding these three highly dangerous individuals are required to report to the nearest town guard. Anyone found having withheld information will also be executed._

Three remarkably accurate sketches accompanied the order, and a sinister, pointed crest adorned the end of the paper.

Kotori gazed at him fearfully, biting her lip as she waited for his response. His mind formed several new questions though his old ones were unanswered. He could voice only one.

“Kotori, where are Gran and Akari?” As he looked up, she winced and licked her lips. She shook her head. “Answer me. Are they dead? Is my family dead?”

“No, they… they were taken.”

“By?”

“Yuma-”

“Who took my sister and grandmother?” His voice was short, irritated.

“Lord Vector.” Her voice was soft, frightened.

He swore under his breath and clenched the paper tightly as he turned back to the mantel. He ran his hand over his parents’ wedding painting. He had already lost his parents to the Barians. He wouldn’t lose his sister and grandmother too.

He turned away from the fireplace, brushing past Kotori as he entered the kitchen and rummaged in the cupboards. Kotori hesitated for a second before following him.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting food. I have three dying people with me and they haven’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours.”

Kotori gasped softly. “What? Who?”

Yuma straightened up, shoving a slightly crusty loaf of bread in a satchel. “Our prince and the Kamishiro twins.”

She leaned against the wall, blinking rapidly as she registered this. “The prince is alive?”

“Barely. Every minute we spend here is a minute he might be slipping into death.” Yuma paused in the doorway before returning to the living room and retrieving the scroll. “Come on.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the door despite her weak protests. He shot her a silencing look that she heeded before he unlocked the door and peered into the street. He had been careless to come to his grandmother’s house. They would surely be watching for him there.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a burly, olive-skinned man in a red silk shirt sauntering down the street toward the house. Before he could close the door discreetly, their eyes met. A quirky smile appeared on the man’s handsome face as he sped up.

“Damn it.” Yuma closed the door and bolted it shut again before sprinting across the room and down the hallway, dragging Kotori with him.

“Yuma, what-”

He pulled Kotori into his old bedroom, now being used for storage. He weaved his way through several boxes before shoving her in the corner. “Stay there. Don’t move, don’t make a sound.” He made to leave, but she grabbed his hand.

“But what are you going to do?”

Yuma tugged himself free. “When I lead him away, go to the forest. About an eighth of a mile up the hill by the first bend, there’s a small hole buried in the hillside. Wait two hours for me, and if I’m not back, follow the tunnel and help them. Don’t let them die. Prince Astral is our only hope to save our kingdom now.”

Kotori slumped back against the boxes as he left the room, and he heard her praying for his safety.

—-

Alit was unsurprised to find the heavy cedar door bolted shut when he reached the Tsukumo residence. He had thought this assignment to scour the village a waste of time, that the Tsukumo man wouldn’t be stupid enough to come back, but this was quite a treat. It might even redeem his failure to kill the Kamishiro siblings.

It would be simple to just force the door down, but it seemed a shame to ruin such nice workmanship.

As he contemplated how he was going to get into the house, a barely perceptible thud in the backyard made up his mind for him.

He moved lithely toward the low fence and hopped over it. He peered around the corner, expecting Tsukumo to assault him from the side. What he found was a little garden with small sprouts shooting up through the cool earth. He frowned for a moment before he caught a glimpse of a brown cloak darting across a neighboring roof before dropping to an adjoining street.

“What are you doing, Tsukumo?” Alit murmured before following suit.

—-

Yuma hopped down from his neighbor’s low roof into a deserted side street. Hoping he had bought Kotori enough time to escape unseen toward the Forest of Hope, he pressed himself into the shadows and waited for Alit, heart pumping adrenaline throughout his body. His sword was out of its sheath, held in Yuma’s slightly shaking hand. All he could do was wait. Alit couldn’t be too far behind him.

Sure enough, soft footsteps across wooden roof tiles alerted him to Alit’s presence. Yuma felt the air ripple around him and jerked back just as Alit’s Baria gem-encrusted brass knuckles connected with the wall, millimeters from Yuma’s face. Yuma tried to maneuver his sword between himself and the Barian general, but Alit’s movements were too quick, and all he could do was dodge until he backed into an abandoned fruit stand. He tumbled backward as Alit raised his fist-

_Crack._

Alit stumbled into the low fence, placing his hand to his head in surprise. He half-turned to see a green-haired woman in a red and white dress holding the staff that had connected with his head. He blinked stars out of his eyes and winced at the blood trickling from the wound that had opened up. Yuma recovered quickly, and put his sword at Alit’s throat. The two locked eyes again and Alit smiled wryly.

“Go ahead, then. Anything you do to me can’t be as bad as what Vector is going to do when he finds out about this.”

Yuma frowned at Alit’s tone. Was he disgusted by the Barian lord? Annoyed? Frightened? Whatever it was, it was clear Alit didn’t have a good relationship with him. But he had more pressing issues to address.

“Where is my family?”

Alit shrugged weakly. “Do you think I know?”

“Vector has them. Where are they?”

“Probably Arclight. That’s where Durbe is, anyway, and Durbe’s in charge of them, not Vector.”

Durbe…? _Durbe told us to wait until Vector gets here._ Was Durbe the lead Barian lord in the Astral Kingdom takeover? What did he want with Yuma’s grandmother and sister…? “Why?”

Alit let out a frustrated sigh. “All these questions. They’re making my head hurt. Just kill me already and be done with it.”

Yuma’s hand tightened on the hilt as he pressed the sword deeper into Alit’s neck. Alit winced as it drew blood and Yuma’s face contorted into a grimace before he pulled his sword away again.

“There’s been enough murder in my kingdom,” Yuma breathed before sheathing his sword. He motioned for Kotori to follow him. She looked down at Alit, who wore a face of incredulity. Without another word, she cracked him once more on the side of the head and he fell forward, unconscious. Yuma raised an eyebrow as he set off quickly back to the forest.

“I told you to wait until I led him away.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re welcome.”

They hurried off, leaving the unconscious Barian general lying by a stand of citrus fruits.


	4. Separate Ways

Ryoga had no idea what time it was when he awoke with a shudder. For a panicked moment, he thought he might still be locked in his dreams; the warbled blue lights around the wall gave him the impression he was still underwater.

_Accept the cards Fate has dealt you._

He raised a hand to his head. It was the same dream he had dreamt for months, trapped underwater with a murky shadow that watched him, red eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Only this time, it had spoken to him.

_Accept me._

Shaking, he propped himself on his elbows and glanced between his sister and his prince. Rio sat up in her bed, staring blankly at the far wall, and Astral had his back to him as he slept. Yuma was nowhere in sight. As she realized her brother was awake, Rio answered his unspoken question, pointing to a note on the table between their beds. It was scrawled in nearly illegible writing that Ryoga recognized immediately as Yuma’s:

_Gone out to see if I can find some food and if the Barians are close. Ditched the clothes, wearing a cloak over my face. Drink the potion, it might help with the pain. Be back soon. Yuma._

Ryoga crumpled the note in his fist. “Damn it, Yuma,” he hissed. “Why did you go out on your own?”

“If you hadn’t noticed, none of the rest of us is really in any shape to go anywhere,” Rio said in a bored tone. She glanced at Astral. “Physically or emotionally.” She jerked her head at the bedside table, where an empty bottle sat next to a full one. “You really should drink it. My shoulder hurts a lot less. Burns like hell on the way down though.”

“I’m fine.” He wasn’t; his leg throbbed like the arrow was still wedged in it, the cut on his stomach seared, and he barely had the strength to sit up.

She shrugged her good shoulder. “All right, but don’t complain when Yuma forces it down your throat anyway.”

“I’d like to see him try.”

Rio rolled her eyes but leaned back into the pillow, trying to get comfortable. Ryoga sat stonily, ignoring the throbbing in his thigh and the burning across his abdomen. He felt strange, naked, without his armor. His trident stood across the room, propped up by a crate. It seemed incredible that not forty-eight hours prior, he had been training his guards in hand-to-hand combat, a skill in which they were alarmingly deficient. He wondered if he had taught them how to fight one-on-one with knives and fists earlier, if they had had time to hone that skill, some of them would still be alive…

But he hadn’t, and now every one of them was dead. Everyone but Yuma.

Why did Yuma always survive where everyone else fell?

Gods, his leg hurt.

He grabbed the potion from his bedside table and downed it in one. Rio was right. It did burn like hell on the way down. But it sent a pleasant cooling sensation through his wounds that took some of the edge off the pain.

The locked door on the opposite side of the room jiggled slightly as someone on the other side tinkered with the lock. Ryoga sprang to a full sitting position, body tense. His weapon was too far away even had he been in full strength, he was in an incredible amount of pain, and the only one who might have been able to put up a fight was gone-

Yuma pushed open the door, cloak hanging off his shoulders, carrying a satchel and rolled up paper, face pained. He had changed out of his coronation uniform into white pants and a red leather vest over a black undershirt. Ryoga relaxed for a split second before a second figure in a short red and white skirt, matching blouse tied at the chest with a red ribbon, and a fragile staff in her hand followed cautiously behind. The hood of her white cloak covered her face.

“Who is this?” Ryoga demanded, half rising from the bed.

She pulled her hood down to reveal dark green hair and brown eyes. “Captain,” she murmured with a small curtsy.

Ryoga relaxed. “Kotori. I’m glad to see you survived the… the battle.”

“The slaughter,” she corrected stiffly, pulling the cloak off and tossing it on a nearby chair. “I ran away. It was too much for a simple Healer like me to witness.”

“That makes two of us,” Ryoga murmured.

“I found Kotori in the village,” Yuma said from the table, opening the satchel and pulling two loaves of bread from it. “The Barians were searching for anyone known to be allies with“ -he held up a long piece of parchment- “the enemies of the Barian Empire.”

Astral sat up suddenly and finally turned to face the rest of his party. “Barian _Empire_?” he repeated.

Yuma crossed the room with a large chunk of bread and the paper. He handed them to Astral, who ignored the bread and stared with furiously glinting eyes as he read the paper. Words seemed to fail him as he looked up at Yuma, whose face remained hardened.

“This… isn’t true. It’s the Barians trying to lure us into a trap, surely-?”

Yuma shook his head. “From what I saw in town, this is entirely accurate.”

Ryoga held out his hand and Yuma passed the paper to him. His hands shook so badly by the end of the order that he had to read the last two lines several times before the letters made sense to him.

“I don’t believe this,” he whispered as Yuma took it from him and handed it to Rio. “How do they think people will respond to an invading force that murdered its rulers and took over anarchically being their new rulers?”

“What better way to destroy morale than to have killed the entire royal family?” Yuma said rhetorically. “People are going about their daily lives but everyone looked too terrified to say anything.”

“This picture makes you look very ladylike, Ryoga,” Rio piped up as she reached the end of the proclamation.

“This is _not_ the time.”

Astral slid back to his pillow and stared forlornly at the ceiling. “But surely… if I show myself, if they know I am alive… the people will fight?”

Rio gave a light chuckle as she rolled the paper up and tossed it onto the bedside table. “My lord, your people were slaughtered. Your _trained warriors_ , I might add. No, they won’t fight, and they would probably turn you in or kill you to make their lives easier. The Dragoons fought the Barians and were driven to virtual extinction.” She ignored her brother’s wince. “Nobody will be able to fight the Barians once they have a stranglehold on enough kingdoms.”

“What do you propose we do, Lady Rio?” Astral’s voice was weak. “Let them take over?”

“Make sure they don’t get a hold of any more kingdoms,” Yuma said, face set in determination.

Rio nodded faintly but Kotori, who had remained silent for the entire conversation, finally spoke up.

“Did you just suggest we – the five of us – singlehandedly prevent the Barians from expanding their conquest?”

Ryoga gazed across the room. “The Barians have control over three kingdoms,” he mused. “The Barian, Arclight, and now Astral Kingdoms.”

“There are only two kingdoms free from them at this time,” Rio said. “Heartland and Tenjo. Both kingdoms have a strong alliance. If one falls…”

The unspoken sentence had more power than if she had finished it. 

Ryoga tried and failed to climb out of bed. His leg pulsed with pain and he collapsed back onto the bed. He scowled and looked over at Kotori, who was now muttering a prayer under her breath, eyes closed.

“Kotori, Heal us,” he said.

Her eyes snapped open. “Excuse me?” she said coolly.

“You’re a Healer, and we’re injured. Heal us.”

She gave him a withering glare but walked over to Astral.

“My lord,” she murmured, reaching her hands out and placing them on his shoulder. He nodded and closed his eyes. She murmured an almost songlike incantation, and her hands glowed with a blue light that was swallowed by the identical lights in the cavern. Astral’s body tensed as she pulled her hands away, looking weary. She walked purposely around Ryoga’s bed toward Rio, and whispered something only Rio could hear. Rio smiled reassuringly and nodded, and Kotori placed her hands on Rio’s shoulders, repeating the process. Rio clenched Kotori’s wrist and bit her lip as Kotori went through the ritual, but she relaxed when Kotori, looking close to exhaustion, pulled her hands away from Rio’s restored shoulder. Kotori turned to Ryoga and grimaced.

“Lie down,” she commanded wearily.

“Why-“

“If you don’t lie back, I will not Heal you.”

Ryoga slowly leaned back, settling on the sheets. She removed his blood-soaked bandages, placing one hand on his chest and grabbing his thigh with the other. His eyes widened in shock both at her forward touch and at the icy current that flowed inside him but he endured the process. By the time she finished, he felt strangely energized and neither his chest nor his leg pained him, though angry scars remained.

She shuddered and slumped against the bed. Yuma caught her by the shoulders and held her up as Ryoga climbed out of the bed. Together, they helped her lie down.

“Thank you,” Ryoga whispered.

“Don’t make it a habit,” she replied weakly, but her eyes closed and she dozed off almost immediately.

Ryoga turned to Yuma. “Are there maps here?”

Yuma furrowed his brow, thinking. “Yes, I have a rough copy in my satchel.”

“Perfect. I need it.” He motioned to Rio and Astral, who both climbed from their beds and joined him at the table. Rio flexed her stiff arm and split a lump of cheese with Astral as Ryoga bent over the map Yuma drew from his bag.

_Incredible how solidified his sense of duty is,_ she mused as he traced lines over the map and muttered to himself. _Even when there seems to be no way out, he keeps trying._

Every so often, he consulted with Yuma, who pointed at landmarks, shaking his head, or nodding vigorously in agreement with Ryoga’s assessments. At one point, they had a furiously whispered argument that Rio caught only snippets of; something about uneven numbers and not by yourself issued from Yuma while her brother spouted the same dereliction of duty and there’s not enough time diatribe that he always used. Still, she couldn’t miss the way her brother’s eyes softened as he listened to the younger man’s counsel, or the way neither so much as flinched when they brushed their hands together as they traced their fingers over the map.

“What was the time you got back?” Ryoga finally sighed, leaning back in his chair as he rubbed his eyes.

"Around eleven. I think we’ve been at this for two hours, so it’s probably around one or one-thirty."

“Five hours to sundown, then.” He looked over at Astral, who was sifting through the crates, making a growing pile of usable supplies. “My lord, we want to explain our plan.”

Astral nodded and set down a bottle he was examining, resuming his seat next to Rio. “Should we wake Lady Kotori?”

Ryoga glanced at her slumbering form. “No, she wore herself out. We can fill her in later. Now.” He pointed at the map. “We’re here, on the edge of the forest. The Barians have expanded into the Arclight and Astral Kingdoms to their west, but the Tenjo and Heartland Kingdoms to our south are still untouched.”

Rio frowned. “The Tenjo and Heartland Kingdoms border Arclight with only the rivers blocking their paths. Why did the Barians cross the mountains though the forest to the north to invade our kingdom first? They could have captured the pass at the river here-“ she pointed at the break in the mountain range at the intersection of the four kingdoms “-and pushed up into our kingdom after conquering Tenjo and Heartland.”

Ryoga’s finger landed on a familiar location to the north, on the border between Arclight and Astral. Rio let out a soft ah as she realized what the Barians had planned. “They invaded the northern border of Arclight but crossed quickly into Astral to attack the Dragoon Village four years ago. Afterward, they went straight back to Baria with the satisfaction of having eliminated a potential future threat.” He didn’t bother masking the bitterness in his voice. Yuma gazed sadly at Ryoga, who looked suddenly exhausted. Rio didn’t want to remember watching her entire race be wiped out, and she knew Ryoga wanted to remember it even less. She remembered it enough in her dreams. “With the Dragoons dead, they could plan their easy conquest of the Astral Kingdom from the safety of Baria without Arclight retaliating immediately for them moving militant forces into Arclight territory. With the Astral Kingdom under their control, Tenjo and Heartland are pinned in with nowhere to go.”

“Where are the Barians going to attack next? Tenjo?” Astral suggested.

Yuma nodded and pointed at the cities lying on either side of the intersection between the Arclight and Tenjo Rivers. “These two cities are outside the natural boundary for Tenjo, but since Arclight and Tenjo have such a good relationship, King Byron allowed the expansion of the Tenjo boundary to include these two cities, which are Tenjo’s most prosperous port cities, as long as Arclight gets a percent of the bounty. They do a lot of trading with Heartland and Astral there. Naturally, the Barians will take these cities first and push across the river into Tenjo. Heartland won’t be able to stand up to the pressure on all sides and will fall.”

“Our goal,” Ryoga said grimly, “is to convince both the kings of Heartland and Tenjo to push an offensive against Arclight, to drive the Barians out.”

“Lord Faker will never agree to an attack on the Arclight Kingdom,” Astral said bluntly. “Not only were he and King Byron close friends, but I have heard that Lords Kaito Tenjo and Chris Arclight are very good friends as well. Lord Heartland is even more inflexible and won’t listen to reason half the time.”

“That’s why you’re going to be going to Heartland and talking with him,” Ryoga said. “Lord to Lord.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You’re sending the crown prince of the Astral Kingdom on a diplomatic mission?” Rio raised an eyebrow. “Alone?”

“Of course not,” Yuma said. He shot Ryoga a peculiarly discontented look that Ryoga pointedly ignored. “I will go with him.”

Rio suddenly realized why the two had been arguing. “So Lord Astral and Yuma are going to the brink of enemy territory… by themselves?”

“Kotori is going with them,” Ryoga said, mouth thinning. “You and I are going to Tenjo.”

“Which is foolish, since you and Rio are both recovering from serious injuries and would be better off with a Healer,” Yuma said tautly, not looking at him. “Especially since Tenjo is more likely to be crawling with Barians looking for us.”

“Rio and I are Dragoons and are therefore physiologically capable of surviving greater assaults.”

“Which will do you no good if you end up bleeding out from a late side effect of the attacks you sustain.”

“We can’t all go together, Yuma. We have too much ground to cover and not enough time.”

“Boys,” a bleary voice from across the room interrupted. “Can’t the Healer decide for herself where she wants to go?”

They turned their heads. Kotori sat up in her bed, glaring at the group through heavy eyes. “I didn’t ask to get mixed up in this in the first place-“

“It’s too late to abandon your kingdom now,” Ryoga said curtly.

“If you would let me finish, Captain, I was going to say that I suppose I have no choice but to fight back for my home. I will go with Lord Astral and Yuma. My concern is greatest regarding my prince’s health.”

Yuma scowled as Ryoga inclined his head toward her. “That’s that, then. Rio and I will head southeast to Tenjo via the mountains, Wyvern Forest, and the Galaxy River; Yuma, Astral, and Kotori will cross the smaller foothills to the southwest toward Heartland.”

Astral looked concerned. “It’s wonderful that we’re going to be doing something for our kingdom,” he mused, “but as our groups consist of three wanted fugitives, a supposedly dead prince, and a conspirator, how exactly are we to get anywhere without being recognized? Or discovered by Barians? They’re undoubtedly watching the mountains and the waterways for us. And, well…” He pointed at his face and half-smiled. “It’s hard to cover up my eyes or the tattoos marking me one of the Astralite royal family members.”

Yuma picked up a small beige bottle. “We’re going to use this face paint and blend your skin tone to cover the tattoos. As for the rest of us, we’ll wear plain cloaks and cover our faces whenever possible, and as long as you keep your eyes down, it should help keep attention from them. And we will not take boats downriver, so we’ll avoid port patrols. Even when we get into Tenjo and Heartland, the Barians will probably have advance scouts watching the rivers.”

Rio’s other eyebrow shot up. “We’re walking the _entire way_? That’s well over one hundred fifty miles either way. It’ll take a few weeks at best.”

Her brother scowled. “It’s the long way, but it’s safer than trying to disguise ourselves and getting found out.” He pointed over at the piles Astral had made by the crates. “We’re going to split supplies and head out at sundown. We’ll try to do most of our travelling under cover of night and rest during the days.” He rolled up the map and handed it to Yuma, who took it without looking at him. “Pack light.”

— -

The sky above the leafy treetops was a brilliant, multicolored pallet of purples, gold, and pinks as the small band stepped out of the well-concealed hillside in the Forest of Hope. Each party member had a small bag slung across their backs and a heavy brown or black cloak covering their faces. The lead figure motioned for the rest to follow as they made their way quietly to the edge of the woods. Towering over the small village a few miles away was the gleaming white marble palace cast in a brilliant mosaic of soft colors they had, until yesterday, called home. His family’s crest, the symbol he wore tucked under his blue woolen shirt was missing from the banners. They had been replaced in the day by the ominous masklike crest of the Barian Kingdom.

Astral ran his fingers across a nearby tree trunk as he gazed forlornly at his birthright, stolen from him at his parents’ premature deaths. A sudden spike of anger filled him; sitting on his father’s throne was his father’s murderer. Ruling over his kingdom with fear was a bandit. His hand clenched and a gentle hand rested on his shoulder. He looked down into a pair of violet eyes.

“We’ll get it back, my lord,” Rio murmured, though she had her eyes narrowed at the flags rustling in the gentle breeze. He couldn’t imagine how she and her brother felt about the Barian crest flying in place of the crest they had dedicated their lives to, especially given their past with the Barians.

He nodded but the smile he tried to give her came off more as a pained grimace. They turned back to the other three. Kotori was checking the wound across Ryoga’s torso, which seemed to have healed well enough, though a violent scar remained. She was chiding him to make sure he applied the ointment twice a day for the next week, and he grumbled accordingly, but he watched Yuma, who stood a short way off, arms clenched tightly across his chest. Yuma wore a thoroughly despondent expression as he stared unseeingly at the ground.

Rio shook her head. “Lady Kotori,” she called, “could you come here and check on our shoulders? I want to make sure I’m prepared to journey without your Healing.”

Kotori nodded and approached Rio and Astral, leaving Ryoga standing alone, still watching Yuma. As Kotori examined her shoulder, Rio watched her brother with narrowed eyes. When he looked at her, she jerked her head slightly toward Yuma and he gave a heavy sigh before closing the short gap between them.

“Your arm is healing remarkably well,” Kotori mused, running a finger over the small scabs. “Better than Lord Astral’s or your brother’s. In fact, I think your wounds will go away soon, which is something I can’t say I’m as sure about with your brother. Just watch out for possible infections. They can spread when bones are shattered.”

“That’s wonderful, and I will be cautious,” Rio said graciously. She rested her hand on Kotori’s. “I appreciate your help, Lady Kotori. We owe our lives to your skills.”

Kotori’s face tinged pink but she smiled. “I am glad you appreciate me,” she said warmly, “unlike your brother.”

Rio chuckled as she looked at Yuma and Ryoga, who stood across from each other, looking everywhere but at the other. Yuma fiddled with the hilt of his sword while Ryoga stroked the handsomely crafted quartz-fortified lance he had substituted for his silver trident. “He means well. He just expresses himself poorly.” She raised her voice. “We should get moving, Ryoga.”

Ryoga gave her a stony glare before looking Yuma directly in the face. He muttered something and Yuma flinched as though slapped.

_He has no delicacy, my brother,_ Rio thought. She clicked her tongue in annoyance. As she walked over to them, she heard Yuma’s strained, quiet reply.

“You either, Ryoga.”

_Neither, apparently, does Yuma._

Ryoga cleared his throat. “Well, let’s go. The plan is to stay with our respective kingdoms whether we succeed or fail in our missions, so we… we likely won’t see each other again.”

Astral clasped his hand with both his frail ones. “Don’t say that, Captain. I might believe that you intend to die.” Ryoga inclined his head, looking troubled. Astral shook Rio’s hand as she bowed to him.

Kotori grasped her skirt and curtsied, first to Rio and again, slightly less cordially, to Ryoga.

“Lady Rio, Captain.”

Ryoga bowed, holding his lance aloft. “My lady.” Rio, surprised, followed suit.

Yuma stood back. “Good-bye,” he said quietly.

The last two children of the Dragoons watched as their three companions disappeared into the rapidly darkening night.


	5. Clash on the Revise Bridge

Emperor Vector tapped his fingers imperiously against the side of the Astral throne and shifted ever so slightly. The lush blue carpets that had filled the throne room hadn’t suited him, and not just because they had large bloodstains all over them. Crimson was a nice color. A powerful color. His crimson carpets suited the marble floors much better; so had the heavy crimson and silver wall hangings he had replaced the blue silks with.

But he’d be damned if the key-shaped throne wasn’t the most uncomfortable thing he’d ever sat in, even with cushions. It had to be the next thing to go.

The hulking figure kneeling on the floor in front of him at the foot of the dais fidgeted and fell silent, having finished a report he’d known Vector wouldn’t like at all. He wasn’t wrong.

“You mean to tell me,” Vector said in a dangerously quiet voice, smoothing out a wrinkle on his purple skirt, “that you not only failed to kill the twins and the prince, but you have failed to find them?”

The man on the floor remained silent.

Vector sighed and stood, secretly relieved to not have to sit on the throne for a while more. “Stand, Gilag.”

Gilag obeyed.

“You’re in luck, Gilag,” Vector said, examining his fingernails. He would need to have them filed; they were getting long again. “Alit reported that he spotted Yuma Tsukumo in the village.”

“Do we have Tsukumo in custody?” Gilag asked cautiously.

“No.” Vector gracefully descended the dais, purple mantel rustling behind him. He reached Gilag’s shoulders in height, but the large man had never felt more dwarfed by Vector’s presence. “He failed to capture Tsukumo, who was actually joined by a Healer we missed in our scourge of the palace staff. And then the Healer knocked him unconscious.”

“Then why am I in luck?”

Vector touched Gilag’s shoulder. Gilag screamed as Vector seared him with his magic.

“Because,” Vector said conversationally as Gilag fell to the floor, “it means the twins, the prince, and Tsukumo are still in the area. They’re probably going to cross the river into the mountains rather than risking the main waterways. Find them. And kill them this time. Oh.” Vector looked down at the man crying silently on the floor. “Do me a favor and get Alit to move Tsukumo’s grandmother and sister to Arclight. Kazuma Tsukumo knew about the Astral World, so perhaps his mother and daughter can assist us, with Durbe’s help. And get that shoulder Healed,” he added as an afterthought.

—-

Night fell as Rio and Ryoga approached the Revise River, across which lay the mountain barrier between Astral and Arclight. Compared to the Galaxy and Arclight Rivers, it was rather small, only a few hundred yards across, but without a boat, it would be impossible to cross. There was a bridge, Rio reminded her brother, but it was very likely to be heavily guarded. They saw no alternative. They would be unable to find anyone willing to ferry them across the river under the combined threat of death at helping them and prospect of great monetary reward in turning them in. The bright moonlight cast a rippling glow across the seemingly placid river. It was unfortunate, Ryoga muttered, that they should be cursed with a nearly full moon and clear skies when what they had to do would be best served under cloak of cloud cover and no moon.

They counted no fewer than twenty armed guards, all bearing the crest of the Barians on their cloaks and all carrying a wide array of reddish weapons, from maces to longbows. Ryoga eyed the archers warily; he would have an easy time dispatching short-ranged weapons with his spear, but the archers could attack from up to a hundred yards with deadly accuracy. Fortunately, two of them were close by and the third patrolled the center of the bridge, so perhaps it would be easy to take care of them. He tightened the bag slung across his chest and shoved his wadded-up black cloak in it. Rio followed suit. Speed was of the essence. Cloaks would weigh them down. The bags would weigh them down too, but they needed the supplies inside. Their black armor would hide them a little better in the darkness, which would be of great help, being outnumbered one to ten, but it would have been so nice for a cloud to cover them…

“This is foolish,” Rio complained, not for the first time, as she tightened the laces on her boots and adjusted the leather girdle hanging over her skirt. “We should have just stolen a ferry.”

“Thieving is dishonest,” her brother replied, idly twirling his lance. It wasn’t as deadly as his trident, but it would have to do. He couldn’t maintain a low profile carrying around his trademark silver weapon when everyone knew he had it. This conversation had been repeated three times since they had reached the bridge, with her brother arguing each time against stealing. Her brother’s sense of honor was bizarre. She was certain his attitude had to do with the fact that his pride had been irreparably damaged during the nightmare at the palace and that he wanted to kill as many Barians as he could as repayment.

Rio snorted and pulled on her gauntlets. “And killing twenty guards is okay, is it?”

Ryoga tilted his head. “They killed our entire clan and invaded our kingdom.”

She conceded that point to him and unsheathed her rapier. The weapon felt warm and familiar in her hand, though her brother’s mouth tightened when he saw it. Despite her hatred of the Barians and everything they had ever created, she found this to be the most perfect blade she had ever held. It had protected her from Barian magic too, which was something no Astral or Dragoon weapon had ever done for her. The surprise in Vector’s face when she had countered his attack filled her with grim satisfaction.

“One scratch of their weapons might kill us,” she reminded him.

“Don’t get scratched, then.”

He was infuriating. “I suppose we should just get this over with before more of them show up.”

“Go for the archers first,” he said casually.

She rolled her eyes and took off at a trot. He followed.

Her rapier took an archer in the throat before he realized they were there. Ryoga dispatched another through the back. Before the pair even hit the ground, the twins had nearly reached the foot of the bridge and took three more through the vitals.

The rest of them noticed.

“Archers!” a masked man wielding a mace cried before Ryoga knocked his feet from under him with one end of the lance and pierced him through the stomach with the other.

“Left flank!” he called to Rio. She deftly parried an oncoming sword, slashed the owner across the throat, and leapt gracefully backward onto the bridge railing in one sweeping motion. Her current position would have allowed her to dart across the bridge if there hadn’t been that pesky archer hovering in the middle of it. She narrowly dodged the arrow but overcorrected her balance and toppled over the railing.

“Rio!”

Ryoga’s split-second distraction cost him; a Barian with a gleaming red knife closed the gap Ryoga had maintained with his ranged weapon and lunged at Ryoga’s neck. The former captain’s eyes widened momentarily in amazement.

“Fortune is on my side, it seems,” he whispered, kicking the soldier back and thrusting the spear at an awkward angle into the man’s chest. As the Barian fell, Ryoga pulled the fang necklace he had tucked under his shirt up to his eyes. Not a scratch.

Another Barian threw himself at Ryoga, but he was ready this time. He pulled his lance back and dropped to his knees. The Barian stumbled and Ryoga swept his feet from under him, toppling him over the railing into the raging, icy undercurrent masked by the serene surface of the river. Then he remembered something that momentarily petrified him.

The archer.

_Rio._

A sword user came at him from the front. He raised his lance in preparation – he was most skilled against swordsmen – and felt a rippling of the air behind him. _I’m surprised it took you this long to think of double teaming me_ , he had time to think, amused, before he thrust the butt of the lance upward behind him. He felt the weapon crush his assailant’s windpipe. As that man crumpled to the ground, Ryoga swung his lance through the neck of the second and scanned the bridge frantically. It was littered with bodies, all with gaping holes and gashes through their vitals. The planks were slick with blood and entrails, and the stench of defecation and body fluid filled Ryoga’s nose. Not a sound issued from any of the men lying on the bridge. Ryoga and his sister were very sure of that.

_Rio._

_There._

He hopped up on the railing and sprinted on the narrow beam. Wind whistled in his ears as he closed the distance – about seventy yards – in less than ten seconds, bypassing a handful of Barians that took swipes at him and missed by yards. As the surprised archer loosed another arrow, Ryoga was ready. He bent his knees and vaulted from the railing, pulling his lance back as the arrow missed widely. The archer barely had time to reload the longbow when Ryoga hurled the lance. It hit its mark straight through the archer’s skull. Ryoga landed gracefully and yanked his weapon free, turning back to the bridge. Less than a dozen Barians remained, though none of them looked particularly thrilled about getting too close to the black-clad Dragoon, lance dripping in blood, so they stood uncertainly nearly twenty yards away with their swords clutched close.

“Rio!” he bellowed.

She hopped back up on the railing and neatly speared the nearest man in the spine. He dropped like a bag of grain. “Took you long enough.”

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

“Holding on to the support beams. I wasn’t getting back up here until that archer was gone,” she said defensively. “Can you blame me?”

“Coward. I could have been killed.”

She stuck her tongue out at him but sprinted across the railing to join her brother, taking one more across the neck for good measure. “Are we finishing them off? My arm’s kind of tired.”

Ryoga opened his mouth to reply but a slight rustle of the air behind him distracted him. He rolled out of the way as a heavy hammer smashed the spot he had just occupied. A gaping hole appeared in the planks.

“Ryoga Kamishiro. Rio Kamishiro. The last two Dragoons in the world.”

Ryoga paled. The massive figure of Gilag blocked their way in front, and half a dozen Barians stood a short way back, pinching the twins in the middle. Gilag’s face was uncovered; Ryoga had never seen any of Vector’s close lackeys in their human forms. Their true forms had always unnerved him, but now he wasn’t sure he preferred Gilag’s human one. He supposed he should have been grateful that Gilag was wearing little armor outside a steel plate covering his upper torso and a large metal belt buckle, but Gilag’s exposed bulging muscles and enormous hammer were plenty terrifying on their own.

“Where is Astral?” Gilag demanded. Fury and hatred lined every inch of his face.

Rio shuffled behind Ryoga. “I’ll take the ones behind us. You deal with him.”

Her brother nodded as she darted off, rapier blurring through the air as she attacked, and shifted his feet. He held his lance across his body, tip down, in a formal stance. He hated the battle position – it was too defensive for his liking – but defense was the only way he was going to keep alive in this fight. He certainly wasn’t going to be able to put his lance through Gilag’s armored chest…

_Any idiot can protect his stomach._

…but then again, perhaps he could aim a little lower.

“Lord Astral isn’t here,” Ryoga replied. Adrenaline coursed through his body. One small nick was all it would take Gilag to incapacitate him. One small nick without Healing would eventually kill him. “Just me.”

“Well,” Gilag snarled, lifting his hammer, “good thing I will be forgiven for letting the prince escape when I rid the world of you two abominable half-breeds.”

Ryoga barely had time to puzzle out what he meant when the man lunged at him. His well-positioned feet danced back and Gilag stumbled forward. Ryoga thrust his lance up toward Gilag’s exposed spine, but the large man spun surprisingly quickly and parried the blow with his hammer. The impact of the spear tip on the hammer reverberated through Ryoga’s arm and he grimaced, almost dropping his weapon.

_Not good._

Gilag swung his hammer upward. Ryoga skidded back just in time; the hammer barely missed grazing his chest, and he fell on his back. Ryoga let out a low hiss and swung his weapon into Gilag’s torso, just below the armor. He found bone; he was just too far left and too high to hit Gilag’s vitals, but the impact made Gilag grunt and stumble. A flash of blue, and Rio flew at Gilag’s exposed back. Gilag let out a roar of frustration and vanished in his portal as Rio landed, just missing her target.

“Damn it,” she muttered. “So close.” She reached out a hand and helped Ryoga to his feet. He was embarrassed at how much his hand shook as she gripped him, her hand covered in slick blood. “Did he get you?”

Ryoga shook his head. “Almost.” He glanced over her shoulder and saw the pile of red-stained bodies scattered all over the bridge. “Impressive.”

“Thank you,” she said dismissively, pulling her cloak out of her bag and throwing it over her shoulders.

As they finished crossing the bridge, Ryoga turned to his sister. “Something is bothering me.”

“Something is _always_ bothering you,” she said idly, leaning by the river to wash her hands and blade. Streams of crimson swirled into the water, quickly dispersing in the swift undercurrent.

He gave her a patronizing stare and joined her. “I’m serious. Gilag called us ‘abominable half-breeds.’ What do you think he meant?”

He thought he saw a dark look in Rio’s eyes in the bright moonlight that passed quickly into a look of puzzlement. “I have no idea. He was just insulting us, and it’s not like the Barians have any right calling _us_ abominable. Come on, we should go before more show up.” She sprinted into the cover of the forest at the foot of the mountains.

He hesitated for a moment before following, leaving the bridge littered with Barian bodies.

—-

Gilag collapsed in his quarters against his silk-covered bed. The lance had pierced his rib, and he was bleeding profusely.

Twice. He had failed to kill those unnatural creatures _twice._

If this wound didn’t kill him, Vector would.

“You know, most people sleep in their beds,” came a drawl from near the window behind him.

Gilag gritted his teeth. “This is partly your fault, you know.”

He heard someone slide off the windowsill and the bed creak as they hopped on it. “I’ve been punished just the same as you. In fact, I was knocked unconscious by a woman. By a Healer. My sympathies are limited.”

Gilag turned his head and scowled at the dark skinned young man lying on his bed, fiddling with the tassels on an intricately embroidered pillow. Many of the young women in Baria swooned as he walked down the halls or through the villages in his human form, with good reason. His human form was beautifully crafted, with thick, wavy black hair, dark eyes, and a well-toned, athletic body. Next to Alit, Gilag, with his human face made of hard angles and his thinning hair, felt more like a rock than a person.

“I’m about to be punished again,” Gilag grunted, snatching the pillow from Alit and stifling the blood flow with it.

Alit tilted his head curiously, his dark locks falling over his right eye. “So you are. I assume that wasn’t our esteemed Lord Vector who ripped what looks like a spear through your chest.”

“Lance.”

“Ah. The Kamishiro man, then.”

“The Kamishiro twins.”

Alit whistled. “Vector’s going to be all kinds of ticked about that one. No Tsukumo, then?”

“No. Just the Kamishiros.”

“Interesting.” Alit frowned and twirled his hair.

“Are you going to help me or not?” Gilag grumbled.

The younger man shrugged and pulled himself to a sitting position. He reached into an inner pocket of his blood-red cloak and pulled out a small purple bottle and handed it to Gilag, who snatched it and drank the viscous contents in one gulp. He grimaced as an acrid flavor burned his throat the entire way down. It was like biting into an overripe lemon. “Disgusting.”

Alit raised an eyebrow as the blood flow slowed and stopped in rapid succession. “Well, next time I’ll let you bleed to death, then. While I have you, there seems to have been a bit of confusion in some orders you left someone to tell me. See, that person told someone else something, who told someone else, who told like four others who all told a few other people, with the result that I’m not entirely sure I know what the original orders were. Am I correct in understanding that Vector wants me to do something with Tsukumo’s sister and grandmother? Kill them, perhaps?”

“Take them to Arclight alive,” Gilag grunted.

“May I ask why Arclight and why alive?”

“Something about the girl’s father having something to do with the Astral World. Durbe knows, probably. I didn’t ask for specifics, see.” He pointed to his shoulder and gave Alit a meaningful look.

“Fair enough.” Alit hopped off the bed and waved his hand, forming his portal right in front of Gilag. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to do that and then resume hunting and putting an end to Lieutenant Tsukumo and the crown prince of the Astral Kingdom.”

“Don’t let a Healer incapacitate you again.”

Alit chuckled. “It wasn’t the first time a woman has knocked me out and it won’t be the last. Ciao.” He waved jovially and stepped back, leaving Gilag leaning heavily against the bed.

Incredible how much trouble two freaks of nature could cause a man.


	6. The Wild Girl

A soft scratching of pen against paper was the only sound in the cavernous library at the Arclight Palace when Mizael walked stiffly through the door, yellow cloak trailing behind him. He strode to the small, silver haired human sitting at a highly polished oak desk next to one of the lofty stained glass windows. It was late at night; no light filtered in the window. The only light came from a small oil lamp by which the human was scribbling what looked like a detailed report.

“You’re back early,” the writer remarked, adjusting his glasses without looking up.

Mizael stopped and looked distastefully at the man’s vest and ruffled yellow scarf. “Why are you in your human form, Durbe?”

Durbe didn’t answer right away. He signed the paper he was scribing with a flourish and set the pen down before taking a sip from a mug sitting in front of him. “Well, Mizael, surely you noticed that our hands are ill-equipped for frequent pen-holding?” He held up his neatly manicured hands. “These human hands are much more dexterous. And besides,” he added, straightening his scarf, “I’ve become rather fond of these clothes. I can’t enjoy the pleasures of fashion and good coffee in my true form.”

Mizael snorted softly and pulled his hood down. Incredible how Durbe felt perfectly comfortable wearing simple clothing in his true form, yet insisted on dressing up in his human form. Ruffled sleeves, crisply ironed blue vest, polished buckled shoes. It was an almost pretentious outfit. And he had been spending quite a lot of time in his human form lately. “Coffee and clothes. You’re growing soft, Durbe.”

“Probably. But that’s why I’m the thinker and you’re the warrior, isn’t that right?” He gently blew on the ink to dry it faster.

“Speaking of which, Vector wants to know why you haven’t gotten anything out of the Tsukumo family yet.”

“Did you tell him that I’ve had them for all of three days and have a host of other things that are higher on my list of priorities?”

Mizael unlaced his vest and pulled the left sleeve of his shirt down, revealing a wicked burn that covered his collarbone and over his shoulder. “Yes I did. He didn’t like it too much.”

Durbe’s eyes lingered on the burn as his lips tightened. “Was that before or after you tried to shove your fingers through his neck?”

“I’m hurt that you would accuse me of having anything but the utmost respect for the beloved Emperor of the Astral Kingdom.” Mizael didn’t bother masking the revulsion in his voice, and Durbe couldn’t fail to notice it.

“You should know better than to antagonize him, Mizael. I’ve been telling you for thirty years to be careful around him.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t tell me what to do when he knows I take orders from _you_ , not him.”

“You should get that Healed.”

“I will when Vector’s done hurling fireballs at me. No point bothering the Healer twice in one day for the same injuries. Did you know that Gilag found the Kamishiro twins?” Mizael gingerly pulled his sleeve up and re-laced his vest.

Durbe looked mildly surprised as he took another sip of his coffee. “Oh? Clearly he failed to kill them or you would be a little happier.”

“He took a lance through the stomach and between the captain and the girl, they killed twenty soldiers.”

“The _girl_ does have a name, Mizael, as you know full well. Also, she’s a fully grown warrior woman, not a girl.”

“They’re half-breed Astralite science projects. I don’t need to call them by their names.”

Durbe sighed and set his cup down. “Fine, then. I guess I’ll head over to Tenjo and see if I can’t convince the prince to do a favor for his mentor’s new friend. Maybe he’ll be successful where Gilag has failed, mm?”

His voice was probably disapproving, because Mizael raised an eyebrow. “Do you even want them dead?”

Durbe rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I would like to study them, to see what it is that makes them tick. Even though the captain is still badly injured by the Barian weapons, they don’t kill him like they do others with Astralite blood. His sister is not only unaffected by them, but can control them. It’s a shame that we killed all the other Dragoons, because they would undoubtedly have been a mine of fascinating information.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his lap. If Mizael didn’t know better, he’d have thought Durbe was regretting the fate of the Dragoon village. Maybe he was, for the bounty of scientific knowledge that destroying the Dragoons had cost him. “But… the others want them dead, and I doubt either would be amenable to being studied like lab rats. They’d probably take their own lives first to _escape the shame_ or whatever nonsense they grew up being force-fed.” He reached for his coffee again but paused when he realized it was empty. Had he really gone through an entire cup already?

“Well, I guess you’re going to have to abandon your dreams for a science project of your own with the pair of them. Getting back to the main point, shall I inform Vector that the conquest of the continent is more important at present than gaining information about the Astral World that the Tsukumo family likely has no knowledge of in the first place, or would you like to?”

Durbe sighed again as he pushed his glasses back up. “I’ll come with you. Maybe he’ll hold off causing you excessive physical pain if I’m with you. I outrank him, anyway.” He stood and headed for the door.

Mizael rolled his eyes as he followed. “I’m sure he will. If you’ll kindly change before we go, Vector isn’t terribly fond of us waltzing around in our pitiful human forms in his presence and I don’t feel up to listening to one of his long-winded speeches about our superiority as a race when he sees that a fellow Emperor likes to gallivant around as a human drinking coffee.”

—-

The nearly full moon shone like a beacon, lighting the rocky path in front of three young refugees stumbling over the rugged landscape. One paused, halfway up a steep incline, and reached back for a hunched figure. They gripped hands and the first gently pulled the second up the slope. A third figure leaned on a staff with one hand, the other clutching the second figure’s in a single-file line.

They had been scrambling up the cliff face for nearly four hours by the leader’s calculations as he watched the moon travel across the spangled black sky. The moon was close to disappearing behind the rocky peaks from this angle, and it would plunge them into semidarkness unless they got about a thousand feet higher in the next ten minutes. It wasn’t possible, the rate they were lumbering.

Neither Kotori nor Astral were used to strenuous exercise. Yuma had, of course, travelled the mountains a number of times with his scouting parties, but as a Healer, Kotori spent her days rushing around hospital rooms and Astral was expected to learn politics and war in the safety of his library instead of in the field. His body was thin and weak, and though he tried to hide it from Yuma, he had a hard time drawing breath. The higher they climbed, the colder the air became, and the more lightheaded he found himself.

Yuma noticed. He gestured at some boulders sitting on a short level part of the mountain. “Let’s rest here for a bit,” he said encouragingly, and Kotori and Astral collapsed next to a few of the boulders.

Kotori pulled a thin blanket from her satchel and huddled up against a boulder. “I know the Captain insisted we travel during the night, but I’m exhausted. Can we sleep?” Her voice was as weary as Yuma had ever heard it. He could hardly blame her; they had spent the evening trudging through the forest and up a mountainside, and she had Healed three people who had been gravely injured by Barian weapons just a few hours before. He had to admire her resilience.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “In fact, Astral, you should sleep too. I’ll take first watch.”

Astral obediently laid his blanket on the ground and pulled his cloak tightly around himself as Yuma propped himself a short way off, closer to the lower path, and stared northward. Astral couldn’t get comfortable no matter which way he turned; he felt the rocks on the ground digging into him through the shabby blanket and the air was bitterly cold. He found himself longing for his plush silk-covered bed and hot cup of juniper tea and felt a twinge of shame at the luxuries he had been born into.

The mountainside plunged into darkness. Astral’s eyes flickered upward, widening at the amplified brightness of the stars. Though still far away, their bright twinkling amazed him. He sat up. Yuma sat like a statue, still gazing northward – home, Astral realized with a sickening lurch. He gathered his blanket, tightened his cloak, and joined Yuma.

“I told you to sleep,” Yuma murmured, not looking at him.

Astral folded the blanket and sat on it, tucking his legs into his cloak. “It’s impossible to sleep when it’s so cold and my bed is made of rocks.” He watched Yuma’s face. The normally optimistic expression on his face was gone, replaced with a solemn look of a much older man. “What’s on your mind?”

Yuma’s lips twitched in a humorless smile. “What isn’t?”

Astral followed his gaze, just above the horizon. “What are you looking at?”

“The stars.”

The prince tilted his head. “What about them?”

“Captain Kamishiro liked – likes – stargazing. He taught me a few things on a scouting party one night.”

“Tell me about them.”

Yuma raised an eyebrow at Astral. “Why?”

“Something to keep my mind off the cold.”

Astral made out a small smile in the darkness. Yuma lifted a gloved hand and slid his fingers through the air, tracing shapes among the stars. It was fascinating, stargazing. Some of the shapes made no sense to Astral – Yuma swore one was a lion when it looked more like a horse, and the “bear” looked nothing like the bears Astral had seen in books. He had never seen one with a long tail, for starters. He understood the Hunter chasing down the Dragon (which looked unpleasantly like the Barian crest), and Yuma showed him how to trace the Hunter’s belt back to the brightest star in the sky.

“And that one there,” Yuma traced a couple of what looked like sticks above the Dragon, “is the Twins-” His face crumpled and his hand went limp, falling back to his lap. Astral understood. He reached for Yuma’s hand but hesitated halfway there. He was never very good at consoling.

“They’re both very skilled warriors,” he murmured.

Yuma turned to him. “I’m still so worried. They were both badly injured.” He sounded on the cusp of tears.

“They’re proud. They feel they failed not only their village and race, but their adopted kingdom as well. They have to prove themselves.”

“I will never understand the Dragoon culture. The things they believe are-” He fell silent, tightening his cloak around his shoulders. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, my Lord.”

Astral nodded absently and turned his eyes back to the path they had travelled. He could see the pinpricks of light from the palace, miles away now. “All we can do for them now is pray for their success, as I am sure they will pray for ours.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yuma tense. By the way Yuma’s hands clenched, Astral knew Yuma felt that prayer was about as effective as speaking to a tree.

It was painful; Yuma had been so full of optimism and faith when he first became a soldier.

“There was one thing I couldn’t tell him.” Yuma’s voice quivered; not from the cold, but from fear. Despair. Anger. Astral could see it in the way he stared blankly down the path, shoulders hunched.

“The Captain?”

“Yes. When I was in the village, I went to my grandmother’s house. My grandmother and sister were gone.”

It took Astral a second to realize what Yuma was trying to say. He hadn’t realized Yuma had a sister. He never spoke of her. “You mean…”

“The Barians have them.”

The frigid air felt suddenly arctic.

“The last time I spoke to Akari was over two years ago, when I joined the Guard. She didn’t want me to enlist, and we had a fight. She told me I was going to end up dead and that she didn’t want to see me again until I came to my senses and quit. She didn’t even answer my letter when I told her about my coronation ceremony.” He laughed bitterly. “I wish she’d come, because then she would be dead like everyone else in the palace instead of the Barians’ prisoner. She’d be better off that way.”

“You don’t mean that.” Astral felt sick; it was like talking to a different person entirely, one he suddenly didn’t feel comfortable being around.

“I know exactly what I mean, Astral.”

Astral could not recall one time in the past year that he had known Yuma where Yuma had neglected to use an honorific when speaking to him. He didn’t like this Yuma. He was angry, vengeful.

“At any rate, I couldn’t tell the captain about it because our mission is important. So much more important. But I am afraid my anger toward the Barians will cloud my judgment, and I want you – I need you – to make sure that my choices are driven by pragmatism and not revenge.”

“I… will do my best,” Astral murmured. “But Yuma… may I ask… why didn’t your sister want you to enlist?”

Yuma was silent for a long moment and Astral wondered if he would answer. At last, he did.

“Because my father enlisted and now he’s dead.”

Astral hugged himself. Yes, he very badly missed the Yuma of last week.

Even though he knew without a doubt that the Yuma who made silly jokes and dozed off during etiquette classes would never be back.

“We both need rest,” Yuma said shortly, pulling himself to his feet. He reached down for Astral’s hand and helped him up.

“Yuma,” Astral said hesitantly as they approached Kotori’s relentlessly shivering form, “what did you and the captain say to one another when we left?”

Yuma paused in the act of removing his cloak and turned his head away. “He… told me to be careful.”

He placed himself next to Kotori and tossed his cloak over them. Yuma held up the cloak, inviting Astral to join them, to share the little body warmth they had on that cold mountain.

Astral hesitantly slipped under the cloak, Kotori’s body pressing against his, and closed his eyes, listening to Kotori’s soft breaths. Yuma’s arm draped over Kotori and rested on Astral’s chest.

_He told me to be careful._

_You either, Ryoga._

They didn’t match up.

—-

Vector stood by the window, glancing out into the palace gardens as the rising sun cast a warm light over the sleeping blossoms. His hand twitched convulsively; he rather wanted to hurl a fireball into the gardens and watch everything turn to smoldering ash. He contented himself instead with turning back to Gilag, kneeling and shaking on the floor, and leaned back against the wall.

“Not once, but twice. How is it to fail twice at the same simple task?”

He watched Gilag’s hand clench but the hulking Barian remained silent otherwise.

Vector took a step forward. Another. Another. Each step slow and precise, to allow for the most dramatic feeling of doom to settle over the hapless Barian before him. When he reached him, he leaned down, face next to Gilag’s.

“I told you the price for failure would be steep.”

Gilag let out a strangled yell as Vector’s hand pressed his back, skin blistering as Vector’s magic seared through his armor, melting it onto his skin-

“That’s enough.”

The pressure lifted, but the melted metal slid down his back, bubbling away at his skin as it went. Gilag whimpered in pain, tears streaming down his face as he hunched over, looking up just enough to see the hem of a white travelling cloak.

“This doesn’t concern you,” Vector spat.

The cloaked figure approached him and Gilag felt a pair of hands grip him under the arm. “Stand, Gilag.”

With the newcomer’s aid, he managed to pull himself to his feet and looked down into Durbe’s narrowed grey eyes. He tried to thank him but his blistering back seared with pain and he let out a choked whimper instead. Durbe’s eyes darted away from Gilag and settled on Vector, who crossed his arms and glared at Durbe.

“Where’s Mizael?”

“Waiting for me in the hall. Speaking of which, I would be very careful about attacking _my_ generals in the future if I were you, Vector.”

“I would tell him to stop treating a lord like a foot soldier if he would rather I not get angry. Just because you let him talk to you like that doesn’t mean he can talk to the rest of us the same.”

“Gilag is coming back with me,” Durbe said in a dangerously low voice. “I will not permit you to punish him as a substitute for your own failures in killing Prince Astral and the Kamishiro siblings.”

“You have no authority in my-”

Durbe reached into his cloak and pulled out a thick letter. “On the contrary, I have the other lords’ permission to take Gilag and Alit back to Arclight. Effective immediately. If you have any issues, I suggest you take it up with them.”

Vector snatched the letter from his hand and ripped it open. His violet eyes narrowed as he read it, and his hand clenched around it as it burst into flames.

Durbe impassively watched the letter disintegrate. His eyes flickered back to Vector’s. “I believe you also had a book of Captain Kamishiro’s for me?”

“I took the liberty of sending it with Alit back to Arclight along with the Tsukumo family,” Vector said crossly.

“Very well.” Durbe rested his hand on Gilag’s arm and guided him to the towering doors. “I’ll be in Arclight if you need me, Vector.”

With fists still clenched, Vector watched the smallest lord lead his hulking general out of the throne room by the arm.

“Your empathy is your greatest weakness, Durbe,” he muttered. “It’ll get you in trouble one of these days.”

—-

The sun hadn’t yet crept over the tops of the mountains when Yuma awoke a few hours later, his face smothered in Kotori’s hair, yet the sky was lightening. It was still bitterly cold; a slight breeze had even picked up. He carefully disentangled himself and found that both she and Astral were already awake.

They sat up and pulled their cloaks tighter. Astral winced as he rubbed the back of his neck and shoulders. They were painfully stiff and hurt when he moved his head. He wished he had thought to place his bag under his head as a pillow for some support, but it was too late now. Yuma helped Kotori roll up the blankets and put them back in the bags and to Astral’s relief, Kotori rubbed the back of her neck too.

“What’s wrong?” Yuma frowned at the pair of them.

“I’m not accustomed to sleeping on rocks, Yuma,” Kotori grumbled. “I’m going to make a salve to help with the muscle tension, if that’s all right with you.”

Yuma glanced back down the mountain path and let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine, but hurry. There’s no telling how long it’ll take them to catch up to us now that it’s morning.”

Astral heard a few surprising words escape Kotori under her breath as she knelt down and pulled a few vials from her bag and began mixing them together in a small bowl.

Astral watched Yuma pace the rocky ledge. He felt something strange in the air that he couldn’t figure out; from Yuma’s narrowed eyes and grip on his sword hilt, he was sure Yuma felt it too.

It wasn’t Barian, Astral was certain of that, but some other danger lay in the mountains, something… unnatural.

After about fifteen minutes, Kotori finished the salve and called Astral over to rub some on his neck. He gasped; it was like placing an ice pack on his neck, but not two minutes later it suddenly felt like a warming stone had replaced the ice pack.

It was wonderful, but he wished it didn’t have such a strong peppermint smell to it.

“Can we go?” Yuma sounded apprehensive.

“Is something the matter?” Kotori carefully scooped the remaining salve into a small jar and placed it back in her bag.

“Something’s here,” Yuma muttered, reaching for his sword and jumping backward.

His sword was in his hand just in time for an enormous beast to leap down from a rocky overhang, landing gracefully where Yuma had been seconds before. Kotori let out a shriek that Astral quickly muffled by placing his hand over her mouth.

The beast growled at Yuma and drew its ears back, tail swishing in what Astral took to be anticipation for a nice meal. It reminded him of a cat, only seven times bigger and made entirely of muscle instead of the fluffy fur and belly fat of the palace cats that spent their days sauntering after mice.

“What is that?” Kotori managed to choke out, pulling Astral’s hand from her mouth.

Yuma and the beast circled one another, Yuma holding his sword between himself and it. “A mountain lion. They’re rare at this elevation, though.” His voice was surprisingly calm. “Don’t move. Anything that runs near a mountain lion is prey begging to be chased. Kotori, raise your staff. Anything that looks like a weapon will help keep it at bay. If I can’t scare it off, I may have to kill it.”

Astral doubted that anything could scare off a monster like this and his fears were confirmed a few seconds later when the lion let out a vicious roar that sounded nothing like the quiet mewling of the palace cats.

Yuma swore and held his sword higher. “All right, then.”

He took a step forward and thrust his sword into the cat’s left shoulder. It roared again, a clear bellow of pain and anger, and bounded forward onto Yuma’s chest, threw him back against the ground, and landed on him.

The only thing keeping the monster from biting off Yuma’s face was the sword Yuma managed to throw up between them, but it had one of his arms pinned uncomfortably tight against his chest and a stream of saliva slid from the cat’s mouth onto Yuma’s face.

Astral couldn’t move; the sight of one of the best swordmasters in the Astral Kingdom being pinned by a giant feline while it drooled on him was a rather horrifying thing.

The lion was too focused on Yuma to pay attention to the woman walking slowly toward it from the side, holding her staff tightly, and therefore wasn’t prepared when she swung the staff into the side of its head, knocking it off balance. Yuma dragged himself from under it and pulled his sword back to finish it before the lion staggered off in the opposite direction.

Astral finally regained use of his limbs and approached Kotori and Yuma, who were both breathing heavily. Yuma ran his sleeve across his face and looked up at Kotori. “I can’t believe you did that again.”

“I can’t believe you put yourself in a position where requiring me to do that again was even necessary,” she snapped. “What if it comes back?”

He shakily climbed to his feet. He probably could have used some of Kotori’s herbs for the pain in his back, but he wanted more to put as much distance between them and the Barians as possible. “Keep your eyes open.”

—-

The sun had fully risen by the time they reached the top of the mountain. The air was thinner here, and colder, and the unimpeded wind roared around them. Yuma drew Kotori and Astral close to him as they began the descent down the other side of the mountain into the Heartland boundaries. From here, he could see the place where the Galaxy and Revise Rivers met, and as he looked out over the vast Wyvern Forest on the other side of the Galaxy River, he wondered if his commander had made it into Arclight yet.

_Don’t be an idiot. You can’t get into Tenjo without crossing through Arclight or Heartland. We should stay together until we get to Heartland and you can go east to Tenjo there. It’s safer._

_Smaller groups mean it’s harder to track us. And there’s not enough time. Rio and I will be fine._

Yuma began sliding down the slope. “Going down is easier on the lungs, but harder on the knees, so be careful.”

It warmed up slightly in the next several hours, as the sun shined directly on the slopes they scrambled down. Several times, Yuma had to pause to help Astral or Kotori clamber over a fallen tree or guide them through scraggly brush that clawed at their ankles and tore through the hems of their cloaks. The east-facing slopes, facing away from the sun in the hottest part of the day, were filled with vegetation that didn’t grow on the other side; leafy trees and bushes full of fruits and nuts were a blessed sight for the three weary refugees.

“I guess we won’t have to worry about that lion anymore,” Kotori sighed, sitting on a fallen log as she bit into a handful of blackberries.

“It could have come this way,” Yuma said, scraping the thick peel of a citrus fruit with his knife. He had that uneasy feeling again. “Lions can cover a large hunting range and I don’t think we’ve made it out of its territory just yet.”

“No,” a new voice said disapprovingly, “you haven’t.”

Yuma jumped off his log and wheeled around, sword flashing in his hands. The lion from that morning waited a short way up the hill with a badly wrapped shoulder, sitting next to the strangest looking young woman Yuma had ever laid eyes on.

Everything she wore, from her knee-high boots to her skirt to her vest, looked like they were made with wolf fur. Her long hair was silver, and fashioned into points on the top of her head that reminded Yuma of cat ears. He could see a tail trailing behind her and a whip attached to a belt around her waist. She glanced at Kotori and Astral before fixing Yuma with a piercing green-eyed stare.

“My friend tells me you attacked her,” she said in an unpleasantly high-pitched trill.

“Your… friend… _told_ you?” Yuma couldn’t cover up his incredulity. She had to be a crazy girl who fancied herself some kind of animal whisperer, and even crazier for thinking a mountain lion was her friend.

“Do you not believe me?” She crossed her arms and glared down at him.

Yuma was about to tell her that no, he did not, when Astral’s hand gripped his arm. “No, Yuma, I think she’s telling the truth. I’ve heard of a race of people who were ostracized for being able to talk to animals. I thought they all died out but I think she’s one of them.”

“What do you mean, _talk to anim_ -“

“I’m right here!” the woman snarled. “I can hear just fine.” She hopped down the hill effortlessly and landed just outside sword range. “You were too close to my friend’s cubs. She was trying to protect them and you stabbed her.”

“She was trying to eat me!” Yuma snapped back. “She could have just growled at us and let us move on but she attacked me first.”

She let out a shrill noise Yuma took for a laugh. “People like you come up in our home all the time and hunt my friends for sport. Why should I believe you?”

“Because we’re being hunted too!” Yuma was losing his patience with this girl, but it was clear she wasn’t going to let them go until she was satisfied somehow with their excuse for being there. “By the Barians-”

“Eh?” She frowned and scratched her chin with a lethal-looking fingernail. “Bears?”

“Barians,” Yuma repeated slowly. “From the Barian Kingdom.”

She gave him a bewildered look and tilted her head. “I don’t know what that is.”

“How do you not-” Yuma began impatiently before Astral grabbed his arm again.

“I don’t think concepts like _kingdoms_ and _Barians_ mean anything to her,” he whispered. “She’s probably lived up here her whole life and only talked to people who are trying to pass through or here to hunt. Can I talk to her?”

Yuma threw up his hands conciliatorily and moved aside for Astral, who gave the girl a respectful bow. “My friends are Yuma and Kotori,” he offered, pointing at them in turn. “I’m Astral, from the other side of the mountains. My friends and I are being hunted by bad people who killed my mother and father. We need to make it to the city by the river as soon as possible.”

The girl put her finger in her mouth and contemplated Astral for a moment. “The bears killed your mommy and daddy?”

Astral shook his head. “Not bears. Barians. That’s what they call themselves. They’re bad people who are hunting me because I am…” He narrowed his eyes at the ground. “I am a leader of my people, and I have something they want.” He touched the pendant hanging around his neck.

The girl nodded understandingly. “I’m Cathy. I’m the only one of my people left. The rest of us were hunted.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cathy’s eyes flashed. “Did you do it?”

Astral shook his head. “No, no. It’s something my people say when something bad happens to another. I mean that I understand what it’s like to be hunted and to lose your family.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “Do you think these… Barians… killed my people?”

His answer was no; the Barians wouldn’t have had any way to get to the beast tamer clans along the mountains of the Heartland Kingdom in any significant numbers until recently, and these people had been hunted and killed until perhaps fifteen years ago. He wasn’t even sure she was old enough to remember the details of her family’s death.

“Perhaps. They’ve killed a lot of people. They killed an entire clan of warriors on the other side of the forest there.” Astral pointed out over the Wyvern Forest.

“Sad,” Cathy murmured. “Why?”

“Because they were a powerful people,” Yuma interjected. “They were blessed with powers from the gods and the Barians feared that power.”

Astral gave Yuma an exasperated look and turned back to Cathy, who had her brows furrowed in confusion. “The Barians get their power from what we call the Barian World. It opposes the Astral World, which gives powers to people who swear to fight the Barians.”

Cathy still looked a little lost, but she pulled her shoulders back. “Like you? You said you had something they wanted.”

“Yes,” Astral said hesitantly.

“Show me.”

Astral sighed and held up a hand.

“Lord Astral, no!” Kotori broke her silence and grabbed his wrist. “You can’t, not here. If the Barians sense you summoning Hope, they’ll know where we are-”

Astral tugged his hand free. “Let them come,” he said quietly, slashing across his body with his hand. “I will destroy them all.”

“Astral-” Yuma began furiously, but it was too late.

Cathy’s mouth fell open and she stumbled backward as the swirling black portal formed overhead, wind whipping furiously on a mountainside that had nothing but a gently whispering breeze a moment before. As Hope descended gracefully and landed behind his master, Cathy’s eyes gazed back toward Astral in amazement.

“I want to come with you,” she declared. “Help make my friend better and I will join you. I want to help you keep the… Barians… from hurting anyone else.”


	7. Table Talk

“…negotiations with Emperor Durbe and King Byron…”

Kaito Tenjo leaned his head on the cool window pane, watching the soft spring rain patter against the palace walls as the messenger read a letter to him. He was sick to death of the whole situation. Negotiations with the Barian Empire that involved allowing Tenjo to remain sovereign were impossible at this point. They’d swallowed Arclight and Astral; those kingdoms dwarfed Tenjo and Heartland and when they decided his kingdom should be incorporated into the Barian Empire, it would be.

“…Emperor Vector’s proclamation regarding the escape of the Kamishiro twins…”

Perhaps it would be better to give in to the Barians now while there was a chance. Arclight had resisted and its king had been tortured into insanity.

Astral had fought and its royal family had been slaughtered.

He didn’t want the same fate to fall on his family.

“Lord Kaito?”

He jerked out of his stupor. He hadn’t realized the messenger was done reading the letter.

“Is… is Chris here yet?”

“Lord Arclight?” The messenger shook his head. “He’ll be here this evening for dinner. He’s coming with Emperor Durbe.”

“What?” Kaito spun around and uncrossed his arms. “Durbe?”

The messenger flinched. “Y-yes, my lord, I just finished reading the letter he wrote…”

Kaito’s eyes darted out the window again. “So they’re not even giving me a chance to respond…” He closed his eyes. The last couple of weeks had been draining. Even before the fall of the Astral Kingdom, the Barians had been prodding him, trying to see how he would respond if they made their move on his kingdom next.

“What does my father say?”

“Lord Faker… wants to see how tonight’s dinner plays out before making a decision.”

“I see.” Kaito folded his arms again. “You’re dismissed.”

He heard the messenger shuffle uncertainly. “My lord, what of your-”

“If my father sees fit to wait and see, then I will not countermand his wishes,” Kaito snapped. “Now go.”

“Y-yes, my lord…”

Kaito waited until the door closed behind him to sink into the nearest chair and rest his head on his folded hands.

—-

Kaito was greeted at the door by a young servant and invited inside his brother’s room. He dismissed the servant, who bowed and closed the door behind him.

“Brother.” The young man sitting by the window wore the same tight white trousers and blue coat as his brother, except the sash across his chest was green instead of blue. A small smile lit his pale face.

“Haruto.” Kaito smiled back and approached him. “How are your headaches today?”

“Better than yesterday,” Haruto murmured, running his hands over the sash. “These clothes aren’t very comfortable, though.”

“I know. We have an important dinner ahead of us, though.” Kaito sat in the chair next to his brother and brushed his hand across his forehead. “You’re warm. I’ll get you an ice pack before they arrive.”

Haruto pushed Kaito’s hand away. “I don’t like the thought of the Barians being here, Brother.”

“I don’t either, but we have to do it. For our kingdom.”

“Are they going to be in their true forms? Their true forms frighten me.”

Kaito pulled his brother to his feet and embraced him. Though eighteen years old, Haruto’s body and mind had barely progressed past that of perhaps a thirteen year old, and he was thin and frail. Kaito was smaller than average as well, and Haruto barely made it to his shoulders. “They frighten me too. They’ll be in their human forms, I’m sure.”

“What if they want to take over our kingdom like they did with Chris’s?” Haruto pulled himself free and looked up at his brother. “What if we have to bow to the Barians?”

Kaito took Haruto by the shoulders and smiled with much more confidence than he actually felt. “We won’t, I promise.”

—-

No expense had been spared preparing the dining hall for this dinner. The ceiling-high windows had been cleaned and the curtains tied back so a view of the Galaxy River could be seen from the highly polished mahogany table laden with silver platters holding potatoes, roasts, breads, cheeses, and a wide array of fruits. A servant dressed in navy trousers and a crisply ironed white shirt waited near a table where several bottles of fine wine sat unopened in bowls of ice.

The brothers and their father stood by the door inside the hall as they waited for the Barians to arrive. Haruto tugged nervously at the hem of his coat and Lord Faker grabbed his hand.

“Be still,” he whispered.

“I don’t want them here,” Haruto whispered back irritably.

Faker gave Kaito an exasperated look over Haruto’s head and Kaito shrugged unapologetically.

The doors opened, and two unfamiliar men walked through them. The smaller of the two had short silver hair and wore an entirely white suit, from the knee-length coat to his shoes to the gloves on his hands, and everything was hemmed and embroidered in gold. His much taller companion had long blond hair and wore a set of gold robes touching his red slippers, with a slit in the sides up to his thighs, and a pair of red trousers underneath. Kaito’s eyes fell on the thin sword attached to the thin red rope tied around his waist; the wire-wrap around the handle was fashioned into the shape of an ornate dragon.

With minor differences, it looked remarkably like Kaito’s own sword.

“Welcome to the Tenjo Kingdom,” Faker said, bowing. Kaito pulled his eyes away from the man’s sword and followed suit, as did Haruto, albeit reluctantly. “Allow me to introduce my sons, Kaito and Haruto.”

The silver-haired man returned a courteous bow. “It is a pleasure,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice. “I am Durbe, of the Seven Barian Lords. This is my most trusted general, Mizael.”

Mizael inclined his shoulders slightly and Kaito studied his face. He had strange red tattoos above his eyebrows and below his eyes, and there was a golden ornament dangling from the wing-shaped protrusion of hair on the left side of his head. His sharp blue eyes met Kaito’s grey ones and they stared at one another before Kaito became aware of a third visitor.

“…sure I don’t need to formally introduce Lord Chris Arclight,” Durbe was saying.

His arrival did a great deal in cheering up Haruto, who beamed as a tall man with long white hair entered the hall and bowed in turn to the royal family. Unlike everyone else, he wore his normal palace attire instead of formal wear; under a long blue coat hemmed in white he wore a white shirt and a blue vest, and his grey-blue trousers were loose. 

“My lord,” he murmured to Faker, who smiled warmly and returned the bow. “Lord Kaito. Lord Haruto.”

It was a ridiculous show of courtesy for the Barians, of course; Chris and Kaito had been close friends for over fifteen years. There was no need for formality otherwise.

“Shall we?” Faker suggested, gesturing toward the table.

“Of course, thank you.” Durbe took the seat to the right of Faker, as was customary for honored guests. Mizael waited until Durbe offered him the seat next to him, and Chris took the seat next to Mizael. Kaito and Haruto sat on the opposite side of the table on Faker’s left.

“Let us thank the gods of the Astral World for blessing our kingdom with bounty,” Faker announced as a servant filled his glass with a deep red wine, and Kaito caught Durbe’s pursed lips and a barely concealed eye roll from Mizael. His hands tightened on his lap in anger as he murmured a rather stiff amen before Faker invited everyone to eat. _So they come to someone else’s kingdom and mock their beliefs, do they?_ He was certain this was a sign of how the rest of the night would go and he wasn’t going to stand for it.

“Father,” he said loudly as Durbe reached for the potatoes with one hand while holding his glass with the other as a servant poured wine into it, “I think we should thank the Barian god for keeping our friends in good health.”

Durbe’s hand froze mid-air and the servant pouring the wine accidentally spilled some on the table. No one noticed.

“That… won’t be necessary,” Durbe said, flashing a quick glance at Mizael, who hadn’t moved.

“I insist.” Kaito waved the third servant toward him, who filled his glass with a white grape wine. He lifted it. “A thanks to Don Thousand, for preserving Lord Durbe and General Mizael with health and wisdom, and may they enjoy many more years of triumph.”

He drank deeply from his glass, and noted with inward satisfaction that he was the only one to do so. Haruto looked puzzled, Faker mortified, Chris as though he wanted to evaporate, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if the glass in Durbe’s hand shattered and the food in front of Mizael caught fire.

Mizael found words first. “You can’t use his-”

“Mizael,” Durbe interrupted sharply without looking at him.

“Durbe, he just-”

Durbe cleared his throat loudly and the general fell silent, though he continued to glare at Kaito. “Thank you, Lord Kaito, for your… consideration.”

There was an awkward pause before Durbe resumed his reach for the potatoes and everybody took the opportunity to fill their plates.

“I don’t think you should have said that,” Haruto whispered over the clanging of spoons on silver. “I think you insulted their god.”

“They insulted ours first, so I think it’s all right,” Kaito whispered back. Down the table, Chris gave him a pained look and mouthed _don’t speak for the rest of the night_ at him, which Kaito ignored, and turned his attention back to Mizael, who had made no effort to reach for any food.

“Is the food not to your satisfaction, General? We didn’t poison it, you know.”

Faker let out a soft moan and buried his face in his hand.

Mizael’s eyes narrowed at him. “I would prefer-”

Durbe cut him off again. “Don’t be rude, Mizael. Have some roast; it’s very tender.”

Mizael’s shoulders stiffened but he took the meat from the proffered platter and grabbed a fork.

In the Barian tongue, Durbe muttered something to Mizael, whose face scrunched up in confusion. There was a rapid, quiet conversation before Durbe leaned over and tapped one of the forks Mizael had abandoned.

Mizael let out a frustrated sigh, slammed down the fork in his hand, and picked up the one Durbe pointed to.

Kaito carefully chewed a chunk of cheese and forced himself to remain expressionless. It was clear that Durbe didn’t take his _most trusted general_ to diplomatic functions with any regularity. The two had an unusual relationship as well; Kaito couldn’t imagine someone subservient to him arguing with him or neglecting to attach an honorific to his name, but Mizael, despite his lower station, treated Durbe as an equal.

Curious, he thought, but then, Mizael was Durbe’s most trusted general for a reason, whatever the reason might be, and it was likely that Mizael’s uncouth behavior was excusable in some way because of it.

Dinner passed in silence for nearly five minutes before Haruto set down his fork and looked at the Barians. “So what are you going to do to us?”

It was Chris’s turn to bury his face in his hand, and Faker set down his glass with more force than was probably necessary. “Please forgive my sons for their disrespect, Lord Durbe. They are… anxious about the possible outcomes of this meeting.”

“Understandably so,” Durbe murmured, taking a sip of wine. “They no doubt look to the fates that befell King Byron and the palace at Astral and wonder if they too will meet a gruesome end.”

“I’m sure neither kingdom’s fate was necessary,” Kaito said, setting his knife down.

“Sometimes unpleasant realities must occur for the benefit of the people as a whole,” Durbe said, undeterred.

“Murdering an entire family is an unpleasant reality?” Kaito countered, ignoring his father’s hushed attempts to silence him. “Torturing a king into madness is an unpleasant reality? Wiping an _entire race of people from existence_ is an unpleasant reality? If I didn’t know you would take it as a compliment instead of an insult, I would call you inhuman monsters.”

“Kaito!” Faker had half-climbed to his feet by this point. “Hold your _tongue_!”

“No, no, he has a valid concern,” Durbe said, waving his hand to calm Faker. “It’s not the fact that we took over two countries by bloodshed that bothers you, Lord Kaito, because humans do it all the time. Torture and genocide and regicide are all perfectly normal in the course of human events, but it’s easy to forget those and focus on when the _monsters_ invade kingdoms and do precisely the same thing. Because then it’s good versus evil. Humans versus Barians. The line between right and wrong is hard to see when it’s conflict between humans, but when we’re thrown into the mix, suddenly it’s clear as day. _This is evil_ , you say, because you can put a face to the evil, and it doesn’t look like yours so you feel okay about it. Am I right, Lord Kaito?”

Silence fell again. Kaito’s hand shook as he reached for a jam tart that he wasn’t even hungry for anymore. Across the table, Mizael stared at his barely-touched plate, lips pressed together. What was bothering him?

“Well, this is a heavy conversation,” Durbe said, taking a pastry. “Let’s talk about something else. Lord Haruto, I hear you have debilitating headaches.”

Haruto seized up and looked over toward his brother with terror in his eyes. Kaito gripped his shoulder in what he hoped was reassurance and shot a glare down the table at Chris, who was focused on cutting his potatoes.

“It’s none of your business,” Kaito said icily. Faker gave him a warning look, but he didn’t care.

“Actually,” Durbe said, holding up a finger as he swallowed his bite of pastry, “it’s got a lot to do with why we’re here.”

“I don’t understand,” Faker said, frowning. “Are you saying you have a cure for his headaches?”

“Not a cure per se,” Durbe admitted, inclining his head, “but it would help to know as much as we can about it before I can make a suggestion. Are these headaches accompanied by night terrors, high fevers, and, perhaps, unexplained and destructive bursts of energy?”

Kaito’s hand tightened on Haruto’s shoulder as the blood in Haruto’s face drained. There was no way he could have known any of that. Not unless-

“Chris,” Kaito began stiffly.

“I can explain this later,” Chris said in a soft voice.

“I assume I’m correct, then,” Durbe said, wiping his hands on his napkin.

Kaito stood up and slammed his hands on the table. Haruto recoiled in his chair. “What the hell do you want from us?”

“Please sit down, this is a diplomatic dinner,” Durbe said sharply. “We’re going to act like civilized adults, unless you wish to be treated as a child.”

Kaito opened his mouth but his father interrupted him. “Kaito, for the gods’ sakes, just sit down and be _quiet_.”

Kaito’s hands clenched as he slowly lowered himself back in his chair.

“That’s better,” Durbe said. “Now, Haruto, tell me about your nightmares. We may be able to help.”

Haruto looked up at Kaito, eyes widened in what Kaito knew was terror. It was the same look he had when he woke up from the very nightmares Durbe was asking him to recount. “Brother-”

“It’s okay,” Kaito whispered, taking Haruto by the hand. “Just… don’t close your eyes. Look right at them. If they can help… it’s okay.” He hated that his hand trembled, hated that he had to lie to his brother, because Haruto was never okay when he talked about his nightmares, and he knew the Barians would only help him if there was some way they could benefit from it.

Most of all, he hated the understanding, the trust, that filled Haruto’s eyes, because Haruto trusted him and he was too weak to stand up to the Barians any longer.

Haruto took a shuddering breath and stared intently at the wall behind Durbe. “They’re always the same,” he began before looking once more at Kaito, who nodded reassuringly. “The sky is black. Raining. Houses burning, people screaming. And… and a person is standing in the shadows… with a dragon above him. The dragon… is the cause of the suffering.”

Durbe stared into his wine glass and frowned, brows furrowed in concentration. To his left, Mizael gazed at him with an almost matching expression. “A rare gift,” he murmured, half to himself. “A very rare gift.”

 _Gift?_ Kaito couldn’t think of anything that was less of a gift than for his precious brother to be tormented nightly by headaches, burning fevers, and dreams filled with death and horror.

“Many years ago, the heir to the Astral Kingdom experienced remarkably similar symptoms,” Durbe went on. “He dreamt of destruction just as you do, and he would be tormented with headaches and fevers. Eventually, when he was eleven years old, he destroyed an entire wing of the palace in his sleep from an extremely powerful burst of energy. Physicians were summoned even from Arclight to see to him, and in the end, it was a Healer who deduced that Prince Astral had powers given him by the Astral World.” He looked up at Haruto. “He found that he could summon a spirit from the Astral World at will, and the figure in his dreams was the spirit he was able to summon.”

A heavy silence fell over the hall and Haruto gripped Kaito’s hand on his shoulder.

“And my son… my son can do the same.” Faker clutched the sides of his chair.

Durbe shrugged. “Possibly. If that is the case, he’s a danger to himself and those around him until he can learn to control his powers.”

“I’m a freak.” Haruto’s high-pitched voice quivered. Kaito wrapped his arm around Haruto’s shaking shoulders and pulled his rigid body closer to him.

Durbe gazed out the window behind the brothers at the last rays of sunlight casting warm spirals of color over the river. “Is the city in your dreams this city? Or is it another?”

Haruto shook his head. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen it before, I just… it’s… it’s a city… in the mountains… drenched in red. Red like blood.”

“Like… blood…?” There was a slight note of alarm in Durbe’s voice.

“I think we should be going now,” Mizael interrupted, pushing his chair back. To Kaito’s surprise, Durbe nodded, his face knotted in concern.

“Yes, you’re right,” he muttered. He scooted his chair out and rose gracefully, picking up his white gloves. “Mizael and I need to return to Arclight. In the meantime, please consider allowing us to assist Haruto. We believe that if he is brought to Arclight, we will be able to allow him to exercise his powers in a controlled environment.”

There it was, Kaito realized with a jolt of terror. His heart raced. The reason the Barians were here – they didn’t talk about negotiations at all. They didn’t ask about the Tenjo Kingdom. They didn’t care about anything…

…except Haruto.

They were going to use Haruto as a weapon to bring his own kingdom to its knees.

“Are you coming, Lord Chris?” Durbe offered, ignoring Kaito’s wide-eyed realization.

Chris didn’t look up from his half-empty plate. He shook his head. “No, I think I’ll stay here for the night and come home in the morning.”

Durbe glanced between him and the tight-lipped fury on Kaito’s face and shrugged again. “Very well. We will return in two weeks’ time to discuss more fully the sovereignty of the Tenjo family over this kingdom. We do hope it won’t have to end in bloodshed. Lord Faker, thank you for allowing us to visit.”

Without another word, he disappeared through the heavy doors, Mizael sparing a narrow-eyed glare at Kaito before following.

—-

Kaito paced the sitting area of his living quarters, rubbing his eyes, as Chris sat rigidly in a nearby chair with his arms and legs crossed. Neither had spoken to the other in the nearly fifteen minutes they had been there. Chris would have preferred that Kaito raise his voice to him, even hit him, to this cold silence, because he deserved to be yelled at and he couldn’t blame Kaito if he wanted to slap him. He tried to figure out the best way to explain to Kaito why he did what he did, why he told the Barians about Haruto, but no matter how much sense it made to him, Kaito was still going to be furious.

“I can’t undo what I did,” he said finally.

“You practically gave the Barians one of the most destructive weapons on the planet,” Kaito spat.

“Haruto isn’t a weapon,” Chris said wearily.

“No, he isn’t. But that’s what the Barians see him as. That’s what they’re going to use him as. Gods, Chris, I thought you cared about him.”

Chris uncrossed his arms and legs and stood facing Kaito. His stance was rigid, his hands clenched into fists. “Don’t suggest that I don’t love Haruto. I did it to keep him – and you – safe.”

Kaito barked out a laugh. “Safe? They’re going to use him to _kill_ people, Chris! You heard him! A figure summoning a dragon that destroyed an entire city! What if that figure is Haruto? How the hell is he safe? How am I going to sleep at night knowing that they’re clawing their way into his soul, tainting him? How is he any better off this way than he would be if they just killed us?”

Chris grabbed Kaito by the shoulders and forced him roughly into his vacated chair. He leaned close. “If they have a reason to keep you alive, that’s all that matters.”

“I’d rather be dead than have to serve those monsters.” Kaito tried to shove Chris away, but he held firmly to the chair.

“Are you saying that I’m somehow less noble than you for accepting my family’s fate rather than fight it? That because you’re prepared to die, you’re going to be somehow rewarded?”

“Chris-”

“No, listen to me. My father was a kind and wonderful man. He loved us, and we loved him. We still do. But now he’s a madman, and he’s never going to be the same again. That’s the cost of resisting the Barians. It’s too late to do anything now, short of open warfare. And you’d never use Haruto against them, because you would rather the blood be on your hands than his. Don’t deprive him of the brother he loves and needs more than anything because you’re too proud to kneel. Despite everything, they’re right. He needs to learn to control his powers before he hurts himself or others and the only other person on the planet who might have been able to help him do so is now dead.”

Kaito slumped in the chair and leaned his head against the side of it, gazing unfocusedly toward the fireplace. “What should I do, Chris? How can I live with myself?”

Chris knelt next to him and took his hand. “It will be hard waking up each morning. Trust me. But do what they say and keep yourself alive. For Haruto’s sake.”

Kaito nodded slowly. “For Haruto,” he whispered. His eyes flickered to Chris’s face, and he gripped Chris’s hand back. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

“You’re not kicking me out?” Chris tried to smile.

“I need…” Kaito leaned forward into Chris’s chest and fell silent. Chris wrapped his free arm around his trembling shoulders and rested his chin on the top of his head as tears trickled from Kaito’s eyes.

He understood. He needed it too.


	8. The Seven Barian Emperors

It was cold, for a spring morning, and raining to boot when a small portal materialized in the Arclight palace gardens and a tall figure emerged from it. Chris Arclight sloshed through the puddles forming on the cobblestones, arms wrapped around his body as he passed tall hedges and bushes full of colorful sleeping flowers. He told himself it was because it was cold and his coat wasn’t very good at keeping off the rain.

_I gave them my soul so I could keep my brothers safe, Kaito._

_I’ll give them mine if I can keep Haruto safe, Chris._

He stopped in the middle of a large puddle and gazed unseeingly at his distorted reflection in the rippling water, the rain plastering his hair to his face and soaking through his clothing. For the third time that morning, he questioned whether his advice to Kaito was sound advice at all or if he was projecting what he wanted onto the Tenjo family. But if Kaito fought the Barians, he would be dead. And Chris couldn’t cope with that. Kaito had been in his life for fifteen years. Life without him was unimaginable.

He let out a soft laugh. He couldn’t afford to have wistful dreams of what _might have been_ or even of what once was.

_I’ll give them mine._

He was unable to bring himself to tell Kaito that when he offered his soul to the Barians, they took it in the most literal sense.

Could he even do it? Watch a man he cared about – loved, actually, and how could he not after all these years and all they’d been through – lose himself in a futile effort to save his brother? It was, after all, that or helplessly watch him descend into madness and despair as the Barians used his brother to commit unspeakable horrors.

His hands tightened on his arms and he forced himself to start walking again.

It was Haruto’s soul or Kaito’s, and Chris knew Kaito better than anyone, probably better than Kaito knew himself, and he squeezed what he told himself was the rain from his eyes as he let himself into the cool marble palace.

“Brother, you’re back.”

Chris paused and took a quick breath before turning to meet his greeter. “Mihael… you’re up early.”

Like his brother, Mihael wore a long coat and vest; his coat and vest were white, hemmed in a precise shade of pink that matched his hair, and his undershirt was a matching pink silk with ruffled cuffs and collar. He had taken to wearing his sword as well since the Barians had invaded a year ago, which still unnerved Chris. Mihael had always been the pacifistic one in the family and shouldn’t have had to wear a weapon around his own home. His green eyes darted to Chris’s feet, where streams of water poured steadily from his clothing in a puddle on the floor and he frowned before looking back up at his brother.

“It’s been thundering since early this morning,” he said. “It was difficult to sleep.” He peered at Chris’s face, at his weary, shadowed eyes. “You look exhausted, Brother. Was it storming in Tenjo this morning as well?”

The thunder had been the least of his problems. Kaito kept waking up – whimpering, sobbing, kicking, grabbing at Chris’s nightshirt, pleading _not Haruto, please, not Haruto_ – and each time Chris would wrap his arms around him and whisper empty words of comfort until Kaito slumped in his arms and lay still and silent before falling asleep again and the next bout of nightmares began.

“Yes.”

He walked past his brother, past the towering windows that the rain now spattered with more force than it had a few minutes ago, and began the familiar walk back to his quarters. Mihael followed, hands clasped behind his back.

“Lord Durbe mentioned that you stayed behind at Tenjo but he didn’t say anything about the conversation that took place. Did it not go well?”

Chris glanced back at his brother. “When did you see Durbe?”

Mihael avoided Chris’s eyes. “Last night. He and General Mizael seemed… troubled by something. They were arguing when I reached the entrance hall to greet them, since I assumed you would be returning the same way.”

“What were they arguing about?”

“I don’t know. They stopped as soon as they saw me, and Lord Durbe did his ‘we’ll talk later’ motion to General Mizael.”

Chris stopped in front of his bedroom door and placed a hand on the doorknob. He wanted to bathe and change out of his wet clothing, perhaps read or take a nap after, but something was wrong.

“Where are they now?”

“I-I think they returned to Baria for some reason.” Something was definitely wrong with Mihael; he shifted his weight and wouldn’t look at Chris. His hands remained clasped behind his back.

“You _think_?” His voice came out much sharper than he intended.

Mihael glanced down the richly carpeted hallway and began shuffling his feet away from Chris’s door. “You seem agitated, Brother. I think I’ll leave you to calm down.”

He took about three steps before Chris grabbed him by the elbow. “Mihael, look at me.”

“Brother-” Mihael tried to tug away, but Chris pulled him back.

He felt it, and knew.

“Mihael, what did you do?”

“I don’t-”

Chris grabbed Mihael’s other arm and pulled up the sleeve. A gold band, inlaid with a brilliant pink gem, wrapped around his wrist. With a frantically beating heart, he held the arm with a shaking hand and forced himself to take steady breaths to keep from screaming.

“What else did Durbe say to you last night?” he whispered. His voice quivered. Not his brother, not Mihael-

“It wasn’t Durbe.” Mihael’s voice was barely stronger than Chris’s. “It was… Father.”

—-

Red storm clouds swirled above the glittering palace carved from red corundum crystals, high in the eastern mountains, spitting rain that sizzled as it touched the crystals. It wasn’t an uncommon sight.

But it was getting too common for Durbe’s comfort.

He climbed onto the window sill and held out his hand, sighing as the rain evaporated on his fingers. In his human form, it probably would have done nothing, but his Barian skin was composed differently. As the rain touched him, it left small red marks. He had researched the phenomenon carefully over the past decade, curious as to why it happened only in the Barian Kingdom. He was sure it had to do with the volcanoes that were near Baria. The chemical composition of volcanic deposits was too similar to the rain to be a coincidence.

“What would happen if someone came up behind you and gave you a small push?”

Durbe retracted his hand and pulled himself back into the palace corridor. “What kind of bodyguard would you be if you let that happen to me?” He tugged the sleeves of his robes back over his arms.

Mizael snorted softly and crossed his arms. “Act more like a lord and less like a child, Durbe. It isn’t as though it doesn’t rain acid every week these days.”

“Are you still angry with me?”

“I’m disappointed that you believe this prophetic nonsense about the _city in the mountains drenched in blood_ or whatever it was.”

“There are no other major cities built into the mountains, Mizael. Prince Astral had similar dreams that did come to pass.”

“Only because we _made_ them come to pass.” He followed Durbe down the cavernous hallway. “At any rate, will you tell me now why we’re here? Don’t you have other things to be doing that are more important than listening to these self-important-” He cut off as Durbe cleared his throat, and not a moment too soon. A door to the left opened and a hooded woman in deep green robes stepped through. Her pointed face peered from under the hood, a jagged green mark running under her right eye.

“Durbe,” she said in a throaty voice. “And…” Her eyes, a shade of dark green to match her robes, lingered on Mizael, who gazed stonily back. “General.”

“Polara.” Durbe gave her a slight bow.

“My lady.” Mizael’s bow was considerably stiffer.

“Unbending as always,” she said indifferently. She turned to Durbe. “Shall we?”

“Of course.”

“Not you,” she added, glancing at Mizael, who had taken a step forward as if to follow. “This is a meeting between the lords, which suffice to say, you are not.”

Mizael’s hands clenched and Durbe chose that moment to intervene. “Mizael, thank you for escorting me. You may wait here for me, if you wish, or if you have _other_ things to do, like read a book, you are welcome to do them.” He held his breath and willed Mizael to stay calm and understand what he wanted him to do. To his relief, Mizael nodded and strode away without another word, long yellow skirt rustling as he went.

“Ten years as a lord and you have yet to exercise control over him,” Polara said as he rounded the corner.

“Mizael is very loyal to me, and generally does as I ask without question. He just distrusts a great many people.”

“So I noticed.” She began walking, tugging her hood down as they went. She pulled her long, dark brown braid from under her robes and let it swish behind her as they began the ascent up the tight staircase to the topmost tower.

“Will Vector be here?” Durbe asked.

“Not to my knowledge. He claims he is too busy.”

“He’s been issuing ridiculous orders and sitting around doing nothing.” Durbe had to force himself to keep his tone civil. “Not to mention how he treats my generals. He needs to be reprimanded.”

“Duly noted. After you.”

Polara held open the door and Durbe crossed through it into the circular, topmost tower of the Barian Palace. Four figures sat in a circle around the perimeter of the room, faces lit by the dimly glowing Baria crystals floating around the walls. Durbe took his appointed seat between a still-vacant chair and a woman with a heart-shaped mark on her thin face, framed by short golden curls. She sat daintily; posture straight and legs crossed, and wore a set of pink robes over a low-cut, shimmering white dress with a pink sash.

“You’re late.” She gave him a patronizing side-glance, blue eyes boring into his face.

“My pardons, Ilya.”

“Never mind that.” The man to Ilya’s right spoke in a gravelly voice that contrasted with Ilya’s breathy, high voice. His thick robes were a deep blue, and his round, rather squashed-looking face had a matching mark cutting horizontally across the bridge of his nose. His thin hair was white. “We can get started now.”

“Aren’t we waiting on Vector, Koche?” The man across the room tapped a slender finger on the side of his chair. His robes matched Koche’s, except red, but the similarity ended there. His oval face, framed by thick red hair, was decisively more masklike than the other lords’, with a peculiar layer of skin curving from under his eyes to his temples and protruding up into his hair.

The final figure, a very tall woman next to Polara, was last to speak. “Vector claims he is… indisposed at present. I propose we begin without him.” She wore her black robes over a tight black dress slashed with silver that brushed the floor. Her thick, black hair fell in waves over her shoulders and down her back. Even her skin tone was darker than the others’. “It isn’t as though it would be the first time he refused to come to a meeting.”

“Has anyone been to Astral to see him since the overthrow?” The red-haired lord crossed his arms.

“I have,” Durbe said. “As I was telling Polara on the way here, he has taken to punishing my generals. It took three Healers to soothe the blistering on Gilag’s back after Vector all but melted the armor into his skin, and Mizael is going to have a burn scar on his shoulder from now on. He’s getting out of control.”

“What did Mizael say to prompt Vector into harming him?” the black-robed woman said, unfazed.

Durbe narrowed his eyes and bit back a retort. “Are you saying Vector had the right to attack Mizael?”

“What I’m sure Pherka was saying is that Mizael is known for speaking his mind in remarkably inappropriate situations,” the red-haired lord interjected. “It isn’t surprising that Vector would have seen fit to sort him out.”

“I am the one responsible for Mizael, as I promised I would be when I became a lord,” Durbe said, closing his eyes to hide his frustration.

“And a _wonderful_ job you’re doing keeping his temper in check.”

“That’s enough, Alasco,” Polara said loudly. “We’re not here to discuss General Mizael’s behavior. What Vector sees fit to do in his own kingdom is his own business, and as Durbe said himself, he is responsible for Mizael. Let him deal with it. The main issue is, of course, where to proceed now that the Astral Kingdom is under our control.”

“I see no reason not to simply invade Tenjo and Heartland straight away,” Koche said bluntly. “They’re tiny kingdoms. Separately, they will have no chance of withstanding us.”

“I disagree.” Durbe sat up straighter. He had to play his cards right in this meeting to keep his leverage over the Tenjo Kingdom. He’d worked too hard to give it up now. “That is, I disagree with invading them the way we invaded the other two kingdoms. I had dinner with the Tenjo family last night.”

This caught the other lords’ attention, as he’d expected it would.

“You what?” Ilya clenched the sides of her chair.

“Without consulting us?” Alasco demanded. “We have rules in place for a reason, Durbe.”

Durbe refrained from sighing with difficulty. “I was a guest. Lord Christopher Arclight invited me along. I broke no rules.” This was stretching the truth to a limit; he had, of course, been the one to initiate the dinner, bringing Chris along only to avoid this very issue. But he hadn’t signed any treaties. He had been very careful not to overstep his limited autonomy.

Polara held out a hand, though Alasco still looked furious. “Very well. What is your objection to invading the kingdom?”

“Because they’re scared.” This was the truth as Durbe saw it. The way Kaito had tensed and argued and tried vainly to comfort his brother proved it. “They don’t want their family to be torn apart the way the others were.” This was it; it was sink or swim now. “I believe that allowing them to maintain their autonomy in exchange for their loyalty will allow for a seamless transition of power. With every other kingdom under our command, Heartland will have no choice but to join us. We can do it with no further bloodshed, human or Barian.”

He held his breath as the other lords contemplated his words. If this worked, he would be able to petition the other lords for the privilege of directing events at Tenjo.

Surprisingly, it was Koche who spoke first. “I see no reason not to try. If we are successful, a bloodless transition would most certainly be preferable to a repeat of Astral or Arclight.”

“Agreed,” Ilya said. “However, who is to assume responsibility for Tenjo?”

“I will.” Durbe winced slightly; he had spoken a little too quickly, too eagerly.

“Oh?” Alasco raised an eyebrow. “Why you? You’re already busy with Arclight.”

“Because I have the Arclight family’s loyalty. If any person on this earth can convince Lord Kaito of the wisdom of a bloodless compromise, it is Lord Christopher. The kingdoms are interconnected. I have the hand of one. I can use that hand to reach for another.”

Slowly, one by one, the other lords nodded, except Alasco, who watched Durbe with narrowed eyes. Durbe wondered if Alasco suspected that he had other reasons to control Tenjo. He was suddenly glad Vector was “indisposed” and couldn’t make it to the meeting. If anyone could have ruined him today, it would have been Vector.

“You have your permission to enter into diplomatic talks with the Tenjo family,” Polara informed him. “Report back in a month and let us know how it goes so we can decide what paths to take next.”

Durbe nodded. “I thank the council for its blessing.”

Koche waved his hand, drawing a flat stone to the middle of the room. A map of the kingdoms appeared on it. “Now that that’s over with, we have to decide what to do about the refugees from the Astral Kingdom. We can’t very well let Prince Astral run around with the last two Dragoons and Kazuma Tsukumo’s son. Are we any closer to catching them?”

Durbe pointed at the river near the Astral Palace. “Gilag encountered the twins here, at the Revise Bridge.”

Ilya leaned forward. Her eyebrows knotted in confusion. “Just the twins?”

“Yes. Either the prince and Tsukumo – as well as the Healer that Alit encountered in the village – were hiding while the Dragoons dispatched twenty soldiers and nearly Gilag as well, or they split up. Either way, it is safe to assume that they are headed” – he pointed at a small landmark in the mountain – “to the Dragoon Shrine.”

Pherka scowled. “If that’s the case, we can’t touch them there. There’s a ten mile radius around that stupid shrine that wards Barians away.”

“In which case, we should focus on finding the prince,” Ilya said. “No one has had any leads on him?”

“Not yet,” Durbe murmured. “But I’m sure something will come up. Either way, if we find the twins, we’ll be able to find the prince.”

Durbe didn’t know what the Kamishiros were planning, or whether they were with the prince. They certainly wouldn’t have abandoned him. But if they were at the Dragoon Shrine, then none of the Barians could touch them.

But a _human_ could.

“I believe I will take my leave,” Durbe announced, climbing to his feet. “I need to prepare for my meeting with the Tenjo family. Good day.”

He left without another word, ignoring the stunned faces watching him go.


	9. Diversions

“Ryoga, can we _please_ stop? We’ve been roaming through this forest all night and I have to… _go_.”

“There’s still time before sunrise. You can wait.”

Rio let out a heavy sigh and stuck her tongue out at him behind his back.

Since leaving the carnage at the Revise River, they hadn’t stopped moving through the forest toward the mountains. Ryoga wouldn’t even stop for food, which was a constant point of complaint from his sister, who insisted that they were going to be too weak to fight on empty stomachs. She was right, of course, but Ryoga just wanted to put as much space as possible between them and the Barians who would inevitably be hot on their trail. And if his calculations were correct, they were about fifteen miles from the Dragoon Shrine. If they could make it five miles, they could rest comfortably thanks to the warding around it.

They barely made it one before Rio had enough.

“Ryoga,” she whined.

He stopped and threw his hands in the air. “What?”

She scowled. “Don’t give me your attitude. I have to go and if you’re so worried about getting there right now just go ahead of me and I’ll catch up in like two minutes.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Fine.”

She muttered something unintelligible as she hurried through the trees for a secluded spot, disappearing in the tree clusters. He leaned against a nearby birch and took the opportunity to reach into his bag and pull out a small chunk of bread. Gods, but was he tired, and the wounds on his leg and stomach were beginning to throb again. Kotori would be furious if she knew he hadn’t put any ointment on it since… was that only twelve hours ago? It seemed like an eternity had passed since they had split up… He could make it a few more miles though, and prayed the wounds wouldn’t open up again before he had a chance to reapply the ointment. He drained his canteen and frowned.

What was taking Rio so long?

“Hey!” he called back into the trees where she had vanished. “Hurry up!”

No response, not even a snide comment. That was unusual.

Scowling, he strode into the trees, nearly tripping over a root half-hidden under the mud, which only served to make him more annoyed. He poked at the ground with his lance as he walked, and the farther he got, the more confused he was. Surely she didn’t wander this far in just to relieve herself…

“Rio?”

The moment her name left his lips, he heard the low voices coming from an adjacent forest path, and they sounded excited, which was probably a result of him alerting them to his presence.

“Shit,” he muttered, taking three long strides before he was hidden behind a thick tree. He heard them nearing, close enough for him to make out excited whispers.

“…was right, then, they are here!” one was saying.

He stifled a groan and hit the back of his head against the tree in frustration. Did the Barians deliberately choose the morons to hunt him and his sister? Did they never learn to keep hidden and silent while hunting? With the way he had foolishly given away his position, they should have taken advantage of his vulnerability and surrounded him, but they were all bunched up like new recruits. He could even tell that there were four of them. If this was a reconnaissance party, they probably should have been reassigned to guard duty a long time ago.

They moved closer to his tree, gibbering in voices that were far too loud, and Ryoga carefully shifted his lance point-down as he waited for them to pass close enough that he would be able to take out maybe two of them before they had a chance to react.

A sharp thud on the back of his head almost caused him to slip into a curse, but he gritted his teeth instead and glanced back. He saw the silhouette of his sister perched in a low tree branch about ten feet away, holding a small rock in one hand and her rapier in the other. She mouthed something at him, but it was too dark to tell what she was trying to say, even with the soft light of the rising sun now filtering through the trees. He held out a hand and tried mouthing back.

_What are you saying?_

She set the rock next to her and held up her empty hand, wiggling her fingers. She gestured with her rapier back toward the path she and her brother had left and pointed up.

He shook his head, brows furrowed in bewilderment. _What?_

She repeated the gesture as though he had any idea what she had said the first time, and he made a stabbing motion with his spear and jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the approaching party. It was Rio’s turn to shake her head and hold out her hands questioningly.

_I’m going to go kill them now, please cover me._ He poked the ground with his lance point for emphasis.

It was a simple request, he thought, except she didn’t seem any more capable of reading his lips as he did hers, and she waved dismissively before darting off the way they had come, directly in their line of sight. He hit the back of his head against the tree again and closed his eyes.

_Damn it, Rio._

“There!”

Two of the Barians started forward after Rio’s running outline. They made it as far as Ryoga’s tree before he thrust out his lance and caught them both around the ankles, sending one sprawling face-down in the mud and the other headlong into a tree, where he crumpled to the ground, unmoving. Ryoga crushed the heel of his boot into the other Barian’s hand as he tried to get up, and held his lance out to the remaining two, no longer defensively.

“I’m sick of running from you bastards,” he growled. “I’m going to kill every last one of you.”

He stepped forward, thrusting the lance into one Barian’s chest…

…and the tip broke on the armor under his cloak.

Ryoga had about three seconds to register that a quartz lance tip snapped like a twig on armor that it should have pierced with ease before the realization that he was now unarmed against two Barians hit him. His would-be victim’s eyes crinkled in the eerily horrible mouthless Barian smile before producing a knife and lunging at Ryoga with it.

Ryoga stepped back, drawing a muffled grunt from the injured Barian on the ground as he trampled on his fingers again, and leaned to the side as the knife thrust where his throat should have been. He grabbed the Barian’s wrist and pulled him forward, throwing the Barian off-balance, and caught him in the stomach with a thrust of his knee. Before the Barian even hit the ground, the second hurled his own knife at Ryoga, who couldn’t move out of the way fast enough before the knife tore easily through his shoulder armor.

He gritted his teeth and glanced at his shoulder; a tiny, shallow scratch was the only mark, but it hurt more than enough. With his other arm, he picked up the useless handle of his lance and swung it like a club, first at his direct attacker, landing a solid blow to the back of the head, and then at the knife-thrower, which caught him in the temple. Both collapsed without a sound, and Ryoga winced as he leaned heavily against the tree. The pain in his shoulder was minimal compared to other wounds he had received from the Barians, but that wasn’t the worst of it; his stomach wound had opened again, and he could feel the blood seeping through his shirt.

“Rio!” he yelled, voice echoing through the quiet trees.

“Keep your voice down.”

He turned to see his sister half-dragging a struggling Barian through the trees. He was dressed in the light leather armor of an archer, and his eyes were filled with a curious combination of fear and contempt. She threw him to the ground at her brother’s feet, an entirely unfazed look in her face, almost as though she were bored, or maybe disappointed. That was fine with Ryoga; he was plenty furious for the both of them.

“Who is this?”

Rio sighed and held up the hand not being used to hold the struggling Barian. “I was trying to say there are five of them” –she wiggled her fingers– “and that one of them” –she pointed upward with one finger– “was hiding over there.” She pointed toward the path. “But you seem perfectly incapable of understanding simple gestures. Don’t thank me for catching him or anything, though.”

He scowled. “My lance is useless now. Their armor must be made of some kind of… Baria crystal compound. The tip just snapped off.”

Rio furrowed her brows as she looked down at his discarded lance handle, and then at the unconscious Barians lying nearby. “You seemed to do a good enough job regardless.”

“I’m bleeding.”

Her eyes darted to his stomach, where his black shirt glistened. “We should get that ointment on you, then. But first, I thought we might want to ask this one how they found us.” She shook her captive by the back of his shirt, and he let out a low hiss.

“Rio, I’m bleeding,” Ryoga repeated pointedly. “To death. I’m probably bleeding to death. I say we just kill all of them and get moving as quickly as possible. Once we’re within the ward, we’ll be safe.”

“No ward will save you for long,” the Barian whispered. “Everything is going according to plan. All is for the sake of the Barian Empire.”

Ryoga reached out and grabbed the Barian by the back of his hood and pulled his head back until they were staring into each other’s eyes. There was more fear than contempt in them now.

“The Barian Empire killed my mother,” he said quietly. “It killed my friends. It killed my king and queen. It drove me into hiding for no reason other than because I exist. Not because I’m a threat to it. But because I’m one piece of unfinished business, one Dragoon that isn’t dead. And you know, I’m going to show the Barian Empire that I _am_ a threat. I will help bring about its downfall. And I will start with your friends. I want you to experience the same fear that filled me when my friends were murdered in front of me. When I held the people I loved as they died. As I watched those who didn’t die become consumed with grief and madness that will follow them for the rest of their lives.”

He picked up the knife that cut his shoulder and approached the first Barian, forcing himself to fight the intensifying pain in his stomach and shoulder that came with touching a weapon carved from the Baria crystal. He grabbed him by the hair, exposing his neck, and sliced it, feeling the warm blood flow over the knife.

“Ryoga…”

He ignored his sister’s quiet plea and approached the second one. The third. The fourth.

He hated himself for wishing deep down that they were conscious so he could feel their terror as he killed them, watch the horror in their eyes as they felt the knife tip slide across their throats before their vision blacked out forever.

The archer’s eyes had no more hint of contempt in them. They were entirely filled with fear now; a beautiful kind of fear. He whimpered involuntarily and struggled against Rio’s grip as Ryoga grabbed him by the chin. Rio closed her eyes, trembling lips pressed together as her brother thrust the knife into the archer’s throat.

There was a sickening bubbling sound and blood poured from the Barian’s neck as the life left his terrified eyes. Rio let go, and his body slumped on the ground at Ryoga’s feet.

The twins stood in the forest clearing, the rising sun shining weakly through the trees, glistening off the bloody bodies and crimson knife. Ryoga stood in the middle of them and laughed quietly. It was a laugh that chilled Rio to the bone.

“Yuma wouldn’t have done it,” he whispered, tossing the knife on the ground. It landed point down in the blood-soaked dirt. “He would have let them live. They weren’t a threat anymore.”

Rio took him hesitantly by the arm. “Let’s go, Ryoga. We’ll get that wound cleaned up.”

He let her lead him, leaning on her slightly. His wound was bothering him more by the minute. “I told him not to lose himself thinking of revenge.”

_You either, Ryoga._

“I guess he’s a better man than I will ever be.”

The Kamishiro twins returned to their forest path and resumed their trek toward the Dragoon Shrine, Rio holding her brother steady as he quivered with each step they took.


	10. Land of Memories

Dusk approached as three youths, two girls and a boy, walked through the increasingly sparse forest toward their subset of the village. Each carried a sword at their waist and wore a cloak against the chilly autumn breeze. One poked her slouching, scowling companion and grinned.

“Ryoga, quit sulking and get over it.”

He batted her hand away and crossed his arms under the pretense of tightening his cloak. “I’m not sulking.”

“Brother, you are definitely sulking. You’re even pouting.” Rio skipped ahead of him and turned, dancing backward so she could watch her brother glare at her. “Mad that Mara beat you again?”

His face turned crimson. “She got lucky is all.”

Mara laughed, a deep, throaty sound that didn’t sound like it should come from the stout sixteen-year-old girl. “Lucky? Uh-uh, I don’t think so. I kicked your ass fair and square.” She threw her arm around his shoulder and gripped him tightly, flipping her fire-red hair out of her green eyes. “You just suck at swordfighting. I bet you’d be halfway decent with the lance, but probably not as good as me.”

“I do not _suck_ at swordfighting,” Ryoga protested, trying to pull away. Her grip tightened and he gave up. “Elder Yasuo told me I was an extremely talented fighter and that I would be a great warrior one day.”

“Yeah, one day,” Rio teased. “Like ten years from now, maybe.” She and Mara giggled and Ryoga rolled his eyes. He wished the other boys his age would hang out with him, but for some reason they avoided talking to him. His sister called it an abrasive personality, but it still hurt that no one wanted to make the effort to befriend him. Instead, he was stuck with Rio and her best friend, who, apart from being two years older than them, happened to be the cockiest girl he had ever met.

They entered the clearing, still bickering. A dozen small huts lined the edge of the red and gold treeline, with a communal garden plot in the middle of it next to a water pump, full of pumpkins, squash, beans, and corn. Each hut was built exactly the same; all made with cedar, all the same size, with the same number of windows.

It was the same as always, but something felt… off.

He glanced at Rio, who had stopped in her tracks, all laughter on her face suddenly gone. Her eyes were narrowed at the treetops, hands holding her cloak close.

Mara was unfazed, or perhaps didn’t notice the strange feeling hovering over their village. “You two look like you’ve seen a Barian.”

Rio shushed her and headed to the nearest house. She banged on the door. “Master Kunio…?”

There was no response. She went to the next hut and found the same thing. The third hut was their home, and she needed only open the door and call for their mother to realize that no one was home. Two doors down, Mara found the same about her own. Rio turned to Ryoga. “Was there a village meeting today?”

Ryoga frowned and furrowed his brow in thought. “I don’t think so. Maybe an emergency?”

“What kind of emergency, though?” Mara rejoined them. “There hasn’t been an emergency meeting that I can recall in the past ten years.”

“Should we check the other clearings?” Ryoga suggested. “If there’s no one there, we should head to the village square.”

The girls nodded, though Rio held her cloak tighter to her body than she had before. Ryoga gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile but she bit her lip.

“I have… a bad feeling,” she murmured. Her face was scrunched up as she stared at the trees. “A really bad feeling.” Ryoga exchanged a worried look with Mara before following his sister through the trees.

The feeling of unease intensified with each step closer to the village square. Even Mara seemed to sense something was amiss; she shivered visibly and placed her hand on her sword. They saw no sign of another person in the forest, which was unusual for the early evening.

A scream pierced the eerie silence, and suddenly the air was filled with screams.

The three teenagers froze. The sounds were coming from the village square – wordless shrieks, furious bellows, cries of pain, thundering footsteps through the trees-

The smell of burning cedar, the billows of smoke rising from the village, a horribly unfamiliar stench blowing through the trees, something that reminded him vaguely of rotting meat being cooked-

“We need to go.” Mara tugged on Ryoga’s arm. He looked back at her stark-white face and wide eyes and nodded, reaching for Rio, who stood rooted to the spot.

“Rio, let’s-”

An arrow whistled by and thudded into the tree directly behind Mara. She let out a cry of pain and clutched her face, blood seeping through her fingers.

“Mara!” Ryoga turned, confused, scared; where did that arrow come from? What was _happening_ , why were people screaming, why was the village square burning, where was everyone-

Mara whimpered and clutched his shoulder with one hand, the other trying to stifle the blood pouring from a gash on her cheek. “It hurts, it hurts, oh _gods_ , it’s like _lightning_ -”

Rio suddenly shoved them out of the way, and not a moment too soon; another arrow thudded into the soft bark of a sycamore, directly behind where they had been standing. Ryoga heard a _tsk_ from the trees and looked around wildly, eyes falling for the first time on a Barian.

It was more horrifying than anything he had ever read about, any of the pictures he had ever seen in his studies. Its skin was a sickening shade of lilac, its narrowed eyes a matching shade. Its mouthless face twisted into a horrible expression of satisfaction as it raised its bow and aimed at the three children huddled together on the ground.

For a moment, Ryoga locked eyes with the creature. He couldn’t understand; there were wards against the Barians around the village.

“How-” he began, but the Barian’s eyes widened in shock, grip on its bow loosening, before it hunched over and fell from its low perch on the tree. A fair-skinned woman in a bloodstained white blouse took its place, breathing heavily, with silvery hair falling loosely over her face as the sword in her hand slacked.

“Rio, Ryoga-”

The woman stepped over the Barian’s body and ran toward the youths, pulling all three together in a tight embrace. Her face tightened as she gazed at their terrified faces, Mara’s tears mingling with the blood on her face. Rio let out a sob and the woman stroked her hair.

“Shh. Thank the gods you’re alive.” Tears slid from her own eyes. “I need you to be strong for me, Rio. You and Mara and Ryoga need to run, as far as you can. Don’t look back.”

“Mother-”

She placed a finger on Ryoga’s lips. “No.” Her voice took on a sense of urgency as the incoherent yelling became louder. “You need to leave. The Barians are slaughtering everyone in the village square and they’re going to be heading this way.”

“But-”

“No. Go, and don’t look back.” She stood, pulling her children and Mara with her, and gave them a small push. “To the Astral Kingdom. You’ll be safe there.” She turned her back and headed back, toward the screaming, toward the smoke.

It was Ryoga’s turn to be rooted to the spot. He was young, but he knew what was going to happen to his mother if they left. He reached out to her but Mara grabbed him with a blood-soaked hand and yanked him along; Rio stumbled along next to them, shuffling feet getting tangled in the red and gold leaves littering the forest floor.

He looked back through tear-filled eyes through the forest, where he saw a robed figure seated atop a white stallion facing his mother. She lowered her sword and said something to him. He raised a hand.

Ryoga couldn’t see more than the cloak of the Barian that grabbed his mother from behind and slit her throat. She collapsed like a marionette, her blood staining the colorful foliage on the ground; all he felt was Mara’s shaking hand as she grabbed him desperately and pulled him back, trying to run, and all he heard were his sister’s anguished cries blending with his own screaming.

—-

His eyes snapped open.

There was no autumn foliage above him now. There were towering spruce trees. The cloudy blue sky through them indicated midmorning, almost noon, not dusk, and there was no smoke filling it, no screams and cries of agony reverberating in the air.

Rio held him as he struggled to sit up, and he clutched her back, forcing his breaths to slow. Her left hand stroked his hair, her right, his waist. The blood that had seeped through his clothes was dry now, and he felt the fresh bandages wrapped around his torso.

“Again?” Rio whispered.

He held a quaking hand to his face. “It was so vivid this time.” He could still imagine the stench of burning bodies in his nostrils. He hadn’t known the smell then, as a fourteen year old boy, but he had experienced enough in the years since. “Everything… was so vivid.”

He wanted her to smile at him, tell him it was just a dream, but he knew she couldn’t because they had lived through the same thing. It wasn’t just a dream. It was a memory that they shared, a memory that had shaped their lives.

For ten years he had tried to forget the dream, to force himself to think of other things, but it came back to him all the time, where he would wake up in a cold sweat, crying, screaming, shaking. Other nights, he would find himself in a deep underwater cavern, face to face with a shadowed monster that watched him with red eyes.

He wondered what it would be like to have a normal dream. What did normal people dream about, anyway?

“We have to get moving,” he muttered, letting her help him up. He felt sick; his head was spinning and his stomach churned. “Where are we?”

Rio’s face was pale and sweaty. She looked about like he felt. “We’re inside the ward. You passed out about a mile back so I had to drag you along.”

Any other time, she would have made a snide comment about how _useless you are_ , but he thanked her inwardly for remaining silent. “We shouldn’t have to worry about them, then. None followed us?”

She shook her head and took him by the arm. He could feel her hands shaking too.

“We’re almost there, then.” He was exhausted. They had been fleeing for nearly eighteen hours. He had hardly eaten. It was no wonder he felt sick.

But, he realized as they set off again, resting would send him back into the clutches of his never-ending nightmares, and he wasn’t sure he preferred that.

—-

The rain at the palace in Baria continued for three days.

Mizael sat propped up by pillows on his bed, idly perusing a thick leather-bound book by the light of an oil lantern on his bedside table. He had read the entire book three times as he waited for Durbe to return from wherever he was; he looked generally satisfied by the outcome of his meeting with the other lords, but he said very little to Mizael about it before leaving.

_I need to return to Arclight. Please stay here and keep an eye on the others. Especially Alasco. He knows I’m up to something._

He hated not being kept in the loop, especially since Durbe always kept him by his side. None of the other lords seemed to be plotting anything as far as Mizael had been able to tell; Alasco spent his time in the music lounge playing the piano, or else at the indoor stables practicing his equestrianism. None of the other lords, for that matter, seemed particularly interested in doing anything other than entertaining themselves. He had occasionally come across Polara writing short letters, and one time Ilya, but the rest of their time seemed devoted to self-gratification.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t keep an eye on any of them for very long, since they not only would get suspicious but also because none of them liked him – which was understandable, as he fairly openly didn’t like them either – so it was impossible to know what they were doing during the times he was not around.

A soft knock preceded the door opening, and only one person would invite himself into Mizael’s private chambers unannounced. Durbe pulled off his cloak as he closed the door behind him, shoulders slouched and eyes shadowed. Mizael was nonetheless glad to see he had remained in his Barian form for his return to Baria; the other lords openly ridiculed his habit of using his human body too much. He dragged the chair from the small desk by the lone window next to the bed and lowered himself in it before glancing around the room.

“I forgot how small your quarters here were.”

Mizael looked back at the book. “It doesn’t matter.”

He truthfully hated being in Baria. His room was cramped, with a rather small bed, a desk, and a wardrobe barely large enough to fit the formalwear that Durbe insisted he have. He never considered the palace his home, even after living there for nearly nine years, and it had nothing to do with the size of his quarters and everything to do with the people in it.

Durbe lowered his eyes and folded his cloak over his arms. “I’m sorry I left you alone for three days. I know you hate it here.”

Mizael contemplated repeating that it didn’t matter, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie to Durbe so he remained silent on that matter. He set the book down on his lap. “Are you going to tell me where you’ve been?”

“Yes.” Durbe looked up again and met Mizael’s eyes. He looked forlorn up close, as though he hadn’t gotten any sleep in that time. Probably not; he was doing a poor job taking care of his body lately. “I was in Arclight. I went initially to speak with Lord Christopher about possibly helping to persuade Lord Kaito to let us bring Lord Haruto to Arclight. But we had… a dispute.”

Mizael closed his eyes. He didn’t need to ask. Chris had found out about Mihael and Thomas. “What did he do?”

Durbe shifted in the chair and sighed. “Threatened to kill me at least three times, threw a chair across the room, and sat against the wall with his head in his hands for the rest of the time. I’ve never seen him angry before, so it was quite the experience.”

Mizael’s eyes snapped open again at the first part of Durbe’s sentence. “He threatened you? Why didn’t you let me come with? How am I supposed to be an effective bodyguard if you refuse to let me keep you safe?”

“I am perfectly capable of defending myself,” Durbe said sharply, ignoring Mizael’s tightened grip on the book. “That doesn’t matter. The point is he refused flat-out to convince Lord Kaito about Lord Haruto.” He narrowed his eyes at his cloak. “So we’re going to have to resort to… persuasion.”

Mizael snorted softly. _Persuasion_ was the reason Lord Byron was the way he was now. The last thing they needed was a repeat with Kaito Tenjo. It would shatter Chris. “I’m still at a loss as to why you allowed Lord Byron to talk you into doing it in the first place. It was stupid and unnecessary.”

“I’m not the king.” Durbe’s tone was clipped. “I am a powerful Barian lord but I am not more powerful than the king.” He shook his head. “It’s too late to do anything about it now. We’ll just have to adjust. In the meantime, I’ve had it from the Healer that you’ve refused treatment for your burn for the past week.” He reached into a pocket of his robes and pulled out a roll of cloth bandages.

“I’m fine.” Mizael eyed the bandages disdainfully.

“Mizael, I am going to administer to your burn whether you want it or not. Remove your vest.”

Mizael made an indignant sound and raised an eyebrow at Durbe. “Oh? Or?”

Durbe closed his eyes and let out a low breath. “You swore your loyalty to me, to do as I say. Left untreated, your injury is going to hinder your effectiveness. Remove your vest.”

They stared at one another before Mizael _tsked_ and slid to the edge of the bed, fingers reluctantly untying the laces on his vest. “You sound as though I’ve become dispensable.” He gingerly peeled the light undershirt from his body, exposing the wicked burn.

“Don’t be ridiculous; you’re very important to my plans.” Durbe unrolled the cloth and poured the half-empty glass of water from the table on it. Water dripped on the floor as Durbe held it out. “This is miraculously not as terrible as Gilag’s burn. Elevate your arm for me.”

The burn was much worse than it probably should have been; in his reluctance to treat it, the blisters throbbed painfully and two had torn open. Durbe began wrapping the cloth around it. The cool water was soothing, but the cloth rubbing the raw skin was excruciating. Vector’s fire magic wreaked havoc on his thick Barian skin; he didn’t like to think about how it would have felt on the soft flesh of his human form.

“I’m only important to your plans?” It was meant to be a feeble attempt at wry humor but Durbe glanced up, eyebrows drawing together sternly.

“That’s not what I meant.” Mizael flinched as Durbe looped the cloth across his chest for support, fingers grazing the tip of the gem resting there. Even the brief contact alerted Mizael to an overwhelming feeling of unease from Durbe, who didn’t seem to notice what he had done.

“That’s what it sounded like.” Mizael managed to keep his tone flat.

“We’ve been over this,” Durbe said finally, tying off the cloth and leaning back. “You’re the only one I can trust with my endgame. The _only_ one. If you can’t fulfill your duty to me, if you’re too injured or become physically handicapped, it’s that much harder for me to accomplish what I need to accomplish.”

“Durbe-”

Durbe held up a hand and shook his head. “No, we’re done with this conversation.” He pointed at the book Mizael had discarded. “Alit said that book was found in Captain Kamishiro’s quarters at Astral. Have you found anything useful?”

Mizael didn’t want to abandon the conversation but when Durbe used that tone, he knew it was time to stop. “Not really. Captain Kamishiro is remarkably averse to sharing his inner thoughts on a great many things. The exception is the very beginning, after he became Captain-Commander. He recorded the entire story Lieutenant Tsukumo told him about the fall of the Arclight Kingdom last year. He does have some interesting thoughts on the matter.”

Durbe nodded distractedly and finally stood. “I’ll look over it this week, then. We leave in the morning. We are _not_ leaving until you’ve had that properly cleaned and wrapped by the Healer. Good night, Mizael.”

Mizael waited until he was gone to snuff out the lamp and lean on the pillows, listening to the soft patter of rain on his window. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Durbe was keeping something from him, and that hurt worse than the burn.


	11. Garden of the Gods

Cathy proved to be incredibly adept at finding both food and shelter during the trek down the mountain. The rain that started up around midday made the terrain muddy and slippery; she knew a small cave that the tired group gratefully took refuge in. Even better – to Astral, at least – was the fact that they could finally light a fire and get warm. He was exhausted. While the summoning did wonders for gaining Cathy’s trust, it sapped him of the little energy he had left, and an irate Yuma had to support him as they made their way down. When they reached the cave, he fell asleep almost immediately, and for a wonder, he had no dreams.

When he did finally wake, he found Yuma sitting on the opposite side of the cave. He held a sheaf of yellowing papers and was writing on them with intense concentration. Astral didn’t want to interrupt, but he felt a stab of curiosity.

“What are you writing?”

Yuma paused in mid-stroke and looked up. “I’m writing our experiences. Captain Kamishiro always stressed the importance of keeping a journal.”

“I see.” Astral frowned. “Where are Kotori and Cathy?”

Yuma gestured vaguely southward with his free hand. “There’s a village a few miles away at the base of the mountain. It’s a trading post of sorts; I’ve been there a couple of times. Kotori needed some herbs, so Cathy went with her.”

“Why didn’t they wait until we all headed that way together rather than make two journeys that way?”

“She said she needed them for you,” Yuma said in a clipped tone. “Since you were unconscious for nearly seven hours before she left.”

Astral frowned. “How long _have_ I been out?”

“About fifteen hours.” Yuma set the paper aside and crossed his arms. Astral sighed inwardly, knowing exactly what was coming next.

“You wouldn’t have been out for over half a day if you hadn’t been careless. I absolutely-”

“-forbid me from doing it again?” Astral lifted an eyebrow. Yuma’s mouth tightened. “I am not a child. And you are my bodyguard. I am not obligated to take commands from you.”

“As your bodyguard, I will not half-carry you down a mountain because you can barely stand after summoning. Which is what always happens and it was entirely unnecessary.”

“ _Gods_ , would you two stop _arguing_?” Kotori and Cathy had arrived and were both staring at them; Cathy with a curious tilt of the head, and Kotori with a frown and narrowed eyes as she tossed a small bag aside with such force that Astral wondered if the vials inside would remain intact..

Yuma mumbled a stiff apology and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. “What took you?”

Kotori slumped against the wall next to Yuma and crossed her arms. Cathy took up a spot next to Astral. Neither woman looked at the other.

“ _Cathy_ decided to draw attention to us rather than keep our hoods up and our heads down, and ended up getting me involved in a petty dispute that evolved into a tavern brawl.” Each word Kotori spoke dripped with more venom than the last, but if she was expecting disapproval from the lieutenant, she would be sorely disappointed.

“ _What_?” Yuma managed through his laughter.

“It’s not _funny_ , Yuma!” Kotori threw an empty salve vial at his head. It missed by inches and shattered against the wall instead. “She got in a fight with armed mercenaries!”

“What were you even doing in a tavern?” Astral couldn’t imagine a place Kotori was less likely to step foot in.

“That’s not important!” she snapped. “What _is_ important is that Cathy threatened to kill a man and feed him to the wolves, and then they had at it until I had to intervene!”

“No one asked you to butt in,” Cathy snarled, nails digging into her palms. “He was killing my friends and trading their bodies. He deserves death.”

“Hey, that’s enough!” Yuma pulled himself to his feet and held out his hands. “Cathy, I understand you’re angry but we are being hunted too, and need to keep out of sight.”

Cathy snorted and crossed her arms. “I only came with because I wanted to find who killed my family. I’m not the one who’s scared of the bears.”

Yuma took a deep breath, but Astral interrupted him. “That is understandable, Lady Cathy.” He ignored Kotori’s indignant _Lady_ and gave Cathy a gentle smile. “We do need to be careful, however. We will never find who killed your family if we attract too much attention.”

Her brows furrowed and she watched the small fire flicker. “I get it,” she said finally. “Sorry.” The word sounded unfamiliar coming from her.

Astral gently patted her shoulder, and she tensed. He realized too late that she probably hadn’t had any human contact in so long that it was an unwelcome feeling. He frowned a little before turning to Kotori. “Lady Kotori, Yuma said you went to get herbs for me…?”

She slid her eyes from their fixed glare on the cave opening toward Astral. “Yes.” She leaned over and grabbed the small bag she had thrown aside. “Though why you need those particular things is beyond me. It was very difficult to acquire them.”

Yuma narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Astral was glad for this; his relationship with Yuma was already strained and he didn’t feel like explaining that he had asked Kotori during their trip up the mountain to get him some herbs.

But he had to explain what he intended to do with them now.

“I need to commune with the Astral World,” he said softly, taking a small bowl and cup from his knapsack. He poured water into the cup and set it near the fire before turning back to the herbs. It was a simple ritual, but with a complicated list of ingredients; cinnamon could only be found in the islands south of the Tenjo Kingdom, and juniper berries grew only on the trees in the northern mountains near the remains of the Dragoon Village. He crushed the cinnamon sticks and berries before adding mesquite and myrrh – both found only in the arid, rocky Sargasso Waste. He hadn’t expected that Kotori would be able to find any of these things in a remote trading post near the mountains, but he supposed he could attribute that to a blessing from the gods.

His three companions watched silently as he placed a handful of the remaining juniper berries in the cup. He took a drink of the lukewarm tea and winced at the intensity. He had once coerced a manservant into getting him a small glass of gin; he liked the taste of juniper tea but adding too many berries reminded him too much of the strong, burning gin, which he had not enjoyed.

It helped him sleep, and that’s what he needed to do.

He held a small, uncrushed mesquite twig over the fire to light it, and used it to burn the incense.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be out,” he whispered. “With luck, it will not be too long.”

“Be careful,” Yuma murmured.

Astral’s lips twitched as he closed his eyes and began the long, silent prayer, breathing in the cacophony of smells; the sweet cinnamon, the woody myrrh, the nutty mesquite, and the piney juniper. His head became light, his breathing shallow, and he felt the distant sensation of falling…

—-

A lone flame flickered on the candle sitting on the nightstand, filling the room with the sweet aroma of caramel toffee. It was a soothing smell. A calming smell. When they were young, Kaito would light one for Haruto to help him sleep. As he got older, the familiar scent helped Kaito sleep, too.

But he slept very little this night, and from the warm, uncharacteristically heavy breaths on the back of his neck, he knew Chris wasn’t sleeping either. His arm was draped over Kaito’s waist, hand linked loosely with one of Kaito’s, and his chest pressed against Kaito’s back. Kaito shifted, pulling Chris’s arm closer to his body. Chris’s face pressed into the nape of his neck and he kissed it gently.

Neither wanted to move, because both knew this would probably be the last time they could lay like this, the last time they could try to forget that the lives they had carefully built together were falling to pieces around them.

_I gave them my soul to protect my brothers._

_But they took my brothers’ souls anyway._

“Chris.” Kaito’s voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t have a choice.”

Chris’s hand tightened in Kaito’s. He leaned his head close to Kaito’s ear. “I’ve told you everything they’ve done to my family, Kaito. Please don’t let them do the same to yours.”

Kaito pulled his hand away as he sat up and looked down at him. Chris’s hair splayed all over his body, over his pillow, even off the side of the bed; his blue eyes were full of something Kaito couldn’t quite place, something unfamiliar on his former mentor, best friend, confidante.

“You told me to give in to them,” Kaito said in a low voice. “You told me to do the cowardly thing and kneel. I’m doing just that and now barely a week later, you’re telling me I should fight them. Which is it, Chris?”

Chris brought himself to a sitting position and grabbed Kaito’s wrist. Kaito’s jaw clenched and he tried to pull away, but Chris’s grip was too tight. “If you give them your soul, they’ll take Haruto anyway. Please, Kaito.”

Fear; that was the look in his eyes, and his voice was full of distress. For a fleeting, tempting moment, Kaito wanted to kiss him again, to smile against his mouth, to let Chris’s hands explore his body. For a fleeting, tempting moment, he wanted to throw himself into his lover’s arms and pretend that it was ten years ago again, when they began their unsanctioned and secret affair.

Instead, he placed his other hand on Chris’s own wrist. “If I become stronger, I can keep my brother safe. My father agrees.”

Chris’s hand slackened and Kaito pulled free, untangling his legs from the sheets. He paused at the end of the bed, staring at the little toffee candle burning to a nub. His father had never found out about him and Chris. He thought perhaps Haruto knew, or maybe suspected, based on the small, knowing smiles on his face when he saw Chris and Kaito together.

It had been almost like a game, in a way; the two eldest brothers of the two kingdoms sneaking around, locking themselves in forgotten rooms in forgotten corridors, laughing when they almost got caught by a stray, nosy maid. It had been like a game because the two male heirs to their respective kingdoms shouldn’t be lovers, shouldn’t reject marriage despite all customs telling them otherwise because that would mean their relationship would have to end.

What children they had been.

Kaito stood up and covered himself with the robe he always kept near his bed when Chris was with him. He felt Chris’s gaze on him as he walked to the door to his bath chamber. “Get yourself cleaned up.” It was an unnecessary reminder. The door closed.

Chris let out a shaky breath and reached for his own robe. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tied the robe so tightly that it hurt his ribs. He had wanted to save Kaito from committing the same sin he had. He told Kaito that his brothers had been stripped and tied down as the Barians ripped out their souls and put them in the little gems now set in fancy gold bracelets. He picked up his own blue gemmed bracelet and turned it around in his hands. He didn’t want Kaito to end up like him. He felt the tears flow again, something that shamed him. He had spent most of the past two weeks with tears running down his face. He had barricaded himself in his quarters crying after confronting Durbe, he had cried while making love to Kaito. That was all right; Kaito had cried too. It seemed they had both realized that this was the last time they could be together. A selfish part of him – a part of himself that he hated – was almost relieved, in a way.

_At least we’ll be together in hell._

—-

He knew it worked before his eyes were even fully open. The sky was the clearest blue he had ever seen, made more radiant by the towering snow-capped peaks of a blinding white. He sat up and noticed that he was no longer wearing his dark cloak; instead, he was robed in a translucent blue cloth embedded in green emeralds. He had been here once before when he was a youth, with his parents, and the reason behind it was to figure out how to control his powers.

He could control them now, but he needed to know how to maximize their effect. He couldn’t go on passing out every time he summoned Hope.

Pulling himself to his feet, he glanced around. He was at the base of the mountains, next to a crystalline lake that perfectly reflected the peaks. A forest loomed a short way off. It seemed as good a place as any to begin. It had been nearly fourteen years since he had entered the Astral World that he couldn’t remember how long he and his parents wandered around before finding someone to help. He wasn’t even sure they had been at this particular place; he seemed to remember an ocean, not a lake.

He walked for what felt to his body like fifteen or twenty minutes, entering the forest, where a small stream meandered through the towering trees, small golden fish lazily drifting through. He stopped to watch them for a minute, breathing in a different scent, one of cool mountain air mixed with a curious fruity smell, despite there being no fruit trees that he could see. It was so peaceful here.

“It has been many years, Prince Astral.”

Astral jumped; he had been so engrossed in the fish that he had forgotten why he was here. He turned and faced a lean figure of no discernible age or gender wearing matching blue robes. Their mid-length hair had an almost ethereal glow to it, so Astral couldn’t tell if it was white, or blue, or perhaps a white-blond. Their eyes were both so pale they appeared almost colorless, and reminded Astral forcibly of his own pale eye.

“Our Lord Eliphas sent me to greet you,” the figure continued. Astral could detect no gender in the voice either, and could only assume this particular Astralite had none. “I am Rabelais.”

Astral nodded and glanced at the mountains again. “Is this… the Astral World, then?”

Rabelais placed a hand to their lips and followed Astral’s gaze. “This is but one plane. A low plane. A garden, if you will.”

It was certainly a unique garden, Astral thought. “I have come to-”

“-seek our guidance,” Rabelais cut in smoothly. “Of course. As you did in your younger years, you wish to understand your powers.”

“I wish to control them without draining my energy in the process.”

Rabelais arched a narrow eyebrow and gestured Astral to follow them. “Come with me, Astral. I wish you to see something that may help.”

Astral frowned at their back but followed closely. He didn’t speak. They walked through the forest together, the trees becoming taller and closer together, obscuring the azure sky with emerald leaves.

Suddenly, the forest ended, right on the edge of a cliff with a sheer drop-off straight into the lake.

But that didn’t make sense, Astral thought, they had been walking on a fairly level path the whole time…

“Such is the will of the Astral World.” Rabelais watched Astral, eyes boring into his. “One can bend the very fabric of reality around with merely a thought. One can even turn mountains” –they nodded at the towering peaks- “into prairie.”

Astral’s eyes widened; the towering mountains and thick forest were simply _gone_ , replaced by tall, waving grasslands that stretched as far as he could see. Even the smell changed, from the fruity mountain air to the smell of dirt and grass and horse manure. 

Rabelais was behind him now, uncomfortably close, and whispering in his ear. “All it takes is to distance your soul from that of your emissary. Each time you call forth Hope, you give him a part of yourself. A part of your soul. It is draining, it is going to suck you dry.” They reached around and tapped the amulet dangling from Astral’s neck. “You hold the Key. Draw your power from the Key and not from your soul and you will become one of the most powerful Summoners who ever lived.” They stepped back, close to the edge of the cliff – except the cliff was no longer there, but replaced by a rolling hill.

“How?” Astral turned to face them, hand clenching the key. “How do I do that?”

“That is your trial to overcome.” Rabelais waved their hand and Astral felt his body deconstructing. He was angry now; he had come here to learn how to control his powers and received only cryptic answers.

“What do you mean by that?” His voice reflected his resentment. “How am I to overcome a trial when the means for overcoming it are not presented to me?”

“They _are_ , Astral.” Their mouth twitched in a small smile. “But be cautious relying on others to help you with your trial. Yuma Tsukumo and the Kamishiro twins… are dangerous forces.”

“What?”

“Be wary how involved you let yourself become with them.”

Astral opened his mouth-

-and found himself looking right into a pair of wide red eyes.

“Yuma.” The name slipped out of his mouth in a shaky breath.

Yuma grabbed Astral’s shoulders and helped him sit up. Astral gripped Yuma’s upper arm with one hand and winced at the pain on the back of his head. Cathy and Kotori sat a short way off, looking anxious; Kotori bit her lip and clasped her hands together while Cathy had a finger in her mouth again.

“You hit the ground pretty hard, Astral,” Yuma murmured. “And you didn’t make a single movement for twenty minutes. You didn’t even breathe. I thought you-” He cut off, shoulders slumping. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re fine. Did you learn anything?”

Astral looked down at his pendant. “I… have to unlock the powers I possess on my own.”

_Yuma Tsukumo is a dangerous force._

“Can I help?”

_Be careful how involved you let yourself become with him._

“I think it’s something I have to do on my own.” At Yuma’s tightened lips, Astral gave him a soft smile and gently pulled his arms away. “But your offer is appreciated.”

Yuma nodded slowly, clearly not entirely appeased, but he moved away and let Kotori shove some kind of painkilling herb in Astral’s mouth. He choked it down; it was disgustingly sour, like a rotting citrus fruit. But as he obediently swallowed the herb, he looked back at the young lieutenant stoking the small fire. What was it about him that worried the Astral World?

He remembered a conversation Captain Kamishiro had with Yuma a year ago, when the former Captain-Commander was killed during the overthrow of the Arclight Kingdom and Yuma was the sole survivor of the assault.

_Your friends are dead, Yuma. The rest of us are going to be unless you tell us what happened. And yet you’ve given up. Where’s your never give up spirit now? Tell me why you lived when they all died._

Did that incident have something to do with what Rabelais had warned him about? Was Yuma a danger to the Astral World? If so… what was he?

And what of the Kamishiros? Why would the Astral World be wary of the last two humans on the planet born with powerful Astralite gifts, gifts from the gods themselves?

He was suddenly tired again, but this time, it wasn’t a physical tiredness.


	12. The Worth of a Soul

From the force of the door opening, Vector knew who had come to see him without even looking up from filing his nails.

“Why, if it isn’t my darling Durbiekins. What brings you and” – his eyes flickered toward the sound of a second pair of footsteps – “our lovely little black sheep Miza to my humble throne room? How’s the shoulder, by the way?”

Mizael snorted as he glanced at a new set of blood-red silk tapestries hanging by the spacious, newly paned stain-glass windows depicting the Barian crest. His hand touched his shoulder gingerly as Vector chuckled to himself.

Durbe didn’t look away from Vector’s throne, and his eyes flashed at Vector’s name for him. “Don’t call me that again unless you wish for me to look away as Mizael thrusts a sword through your neck.”

Vector’s eyebrows shot up. “Threatening another lord? _Someone’s_ in a touchy mood today.”

“I’m only in a touchy mood because you expect me to do ten different things in five different kingdoms while you sit around giving yourself a manicure.”

“A good emperor knows how to delegate.”

Mizael laughed humorlessly. “Of course, because you know _all_ about being a good emperor.”

Durbe gave him a warning look before turning back to Vector. “You can’t possibly expect me to keep tags on the Tenjo brothers, the Arclights, the Tsukumo women, and lead the search for Prince Astral and his band of renegades on my own.”

“Why Durbe, are you asking for my _help_?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m telling you to shoulder some of your own responsibilities instead of assuming that I will take care of everything for you.”

Vector tossed the file aside and sighed dramatically. “Then I’ll take care of affairs in the Tenjo Kingdom, how does that sound?”

Durbe heard Mizael inhale sharply before he felt the urgent tug on his sleeve. “You can’t let him have Haruto Tenjo.” Durbe could barely hear Mizael’s voice.

He certainly would never let Vector within ten miles of Haruto, if he could help it. With that kind of power, Vector could undo everything Durbe had dedicated his life to in a matter of hours. He could only hope that Vector didn’t know about Haruto’s powers to begin with, but with Vector’s unsettling interest in the Tenjo Kingdom… He couldn’t be too sure.

“No.”

Vector settled back, covering up his flash of irritation so quickly Durbe might have imagined it if he hadn’t known Vector too well. “What do you want me to do, then, Durbie?”

“You should treat him with enough respect to use his name properly,” Mizael spat.

“You’re one to talk of respecting a Barian Lord, Mizzy,” Vector said smoothly. “Still letting him talk to you like that, Durbie?”

Mizael’s expression tightened and Durbe held up a hand. “Mizael, stop.”

“But-“

“We’ll talk later. For once, just be silent.” Mizael crossed his arms and turned away, and Durbe turned back to Vector. “You can lead the search for Prince Astral.”

Vector threw his legs over the side of the throne chair and rolled his eyes. “That’s grunt work.”

“Then you should have no problem with it.”

Durbe turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, Mizael giving Vector a scathing look before following. The heavy door slammed closed behind them.

Vector chuckled to himself as he admired his nails. “So _close_ this time. No worries, though, Durbie-wurbiekins. I am perfectly capable of delegation. Just you watch.”

—-

Haruto heard the soft footfalls in the hallway outside his room. Too soft and too cautious to be anyone who was supposed to be in the hallway this early in the morning; most of the servants would begin their daily cleaning and chores when Lord Faker awoke. But then, Lord Faker had been called away to Heartland the afternoon before and had not yet returned.

By process of elimination, Haruto deduced that his brother was awake and roaming the halls, and sure enough, Kaito was halfway down the hallway when Haruto opened the door.

“Brother.”

Kaito paused and turned his head. “Haruto. You’re awake already?”

Haruto stepped into the hall and closed his bedroom door behind him. “Why are you dressed like that?” He had never seen his brother wear anything quite like it; a tight white coat that fell to his knees, loose blue trousers, white boots, a tight white shirt. Instead of wearing his blue sash around his waist, he wore it draped across his body over his left shoulder, under the coat. His white gloved hands clenched a grey-blue cloak. Haruto’s eyes fell finally on the sheathed sword at his waist; around the wire-wrap was a handsomely crafted dragon. “Where are you going?”

Kaito sighed and walked back to Haruto. “I need to take care of some things.” He placed his hand on Haruto’s shoulder. Haruto wrenched himself away, ignoring Kaito’s look of surprise.

“I asked _where_ you were going.” He was being stubborn, he knew it, but if his brother insisted on treating him like a child, perhaps he should respond like one.

There was a short pause. Kaito looked down at his travelling cloak and back to Haruto. “I need to visit Arclight.”

“Why?” He couldn’t quite understand; Chris was just here yesterday morning. What other reason could his brother have for visiting Arclight?

“Haruto, please, don’t concern yourself with-”

“Does it have something to do with Chris?” Haruto cut in. “He looked very upset when he left yesterday morning.”

An unusual look flitted across his brother’s face. Regret, maybe. Perhaps they had fought again. “A bit, yes.” He gave Haruto a sad smile. “I won’t be long. If all goes well I should return in a few days.” He lifted his hand as though contemplating patting Haruto’s shoulder with it, but seemed to change his mind and turned to walk away instead.

“If it doesn’t?”

Kaito didn’t slow, or glance behind him this time. “Then I will see you when I can. Take care.”

Haruto watched him leave, and when he had rounded the corner, bowed his head and offered a quiet prayer. Maybe this time, the gods would listen.

_Please keep my brother safe. Please watch over him, and don’t let him do something terrible._

—-

The Heartland Palace sat high on a hill overlooking the Revise River, half a day’s ride from Heartland City, one of the most prosperous cities on the continent. The kingdom itself was a fraction the size of Arclight and Astral, but what it lacked in size it made up for in its production of rare luxury items from its southern coast and islands – sugar, spices, silks, fruits – and Heartland City’s popular sporting events.

It was still early spring, too cool out for sports and far too early in the morning for them anyway, so Lord Heartland invited Lord Faker to eat breakfast with him in a modest sized dining area with wide windows facing toward the river.

“It’s my favorite place to eat in the mornings,” Heartland explained, smearing peach jam on his bread, “because it faces away from the city. Every so often, it’s nice to forget the bustle of the city and the people living out their pointless lives, wouldn’t you say?”

Faker took a sip of apple juice. It was sweet, and had a wonderful flavor. Not for the first time, he was somewhat envious of the southern islands that produced the fruits and sugar that went into making these drinks. “I wouldn’t necessarily consider their lives _pointless_. They all contribute to the betterment of society in some way or another.”

Heartland laughed softly. “Maybe some do. But many laze about, begging for food, begging for money. They’re a detriment to my society.”

“Don’t you have them arrested and forced into your little games when they’re caught begging?” Faker swirled the dregs of his juice and contemplated asking for another glass. The sweetness was hurting his teeth a bit. Best not to.

“They’re no longer a detriment then, are they?” Heartland settled back and adjusted the gold band around his head. “They’re contributing to entertainment, which is one of my kingdom’s greatest sources of revenue.”

“I suppose you’re right about that.” Faker picked up his fork and sliced into a hardboiled egg. “You’re certainly doing very well for your kingdom.” This was the point he had been waiting for all morning, but a knock at the door cut into his next question.

“Enter.”

A young man entered, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted in thought. The neat hair that fell into his eyes was a light shade of blue, as was his white-embroidered shirt and slacks – an outfit that mirrored Heartland’s black and red one – and the cape that swished as he walked toward Heartland was a darker shade. He knelt, shifting the sword at his waist.

“What is it, Lieutenant Okudaira?” Where the young man looked puzzled, even concerned, Heartland looked bored.

The lieutenant licked his lips. “My lord, we’ve heard some interesting reports from the mercenaries up north.”

“Oh? Along the Astral border, you mean?”

“Yes sir. It seems two young women got into an altercation with one of the hunters in the trading village. One kept referring to the animal pelts he was trading as ‘my friends’ and the other apparently had a northern accent.”

Heartland frowned into his juice. “Probably just a couple of strange refugees from the Astral Kingdom passing through.”

Okudaira shook his head. “That’s not all, my lord. This altercation took place only half a day after a strange sighting.”

“An animal sighting?”

“No, sir.” Okudaira glanced up. “A blinding ray of light, breaking through the storm clouds onto the mountainside. Some even think… it was humanlike. Like a god.”

Heartland’s hand froze halfway to his mouth and his eyes darted across the table at Faker, who was watching Okudaira curiously.

“How many claim to have seen this?”

Okudaira looked over at Faker. “Half a dozen, my lord.”

“Interesting,” Heartland murmured into his glass. He was silent for a moment. “Lieutenant, I want you to send a carrier pigeon to Arclight. Inform… _them_ of what you heard.” He looked out the window, at the sun that was starting to cast stronger light over the smooth river. “Make it a fast one; I want it there by sunset.”

“I… yes, my lord.” Okudaira frowned but stood, bowing to the lords, and hurried out.

Faker waited until the lieutenant’s footsteps faded before speaking. “You think it wise to send word of this to the Barians?”

“They approached me, you know.” Heartland sounded a bit troubled now. “One of the lords. Durbe. He offered my kingdom autonomy in exchange for favors. Not officially, you see, because he has to have full backing from the others, but he seems to carry a lot of weight with them.”

“And you trust him?” Faker didn’t mean to sound skeptical. But he didn’t believe for a second that the Barians would allow arguably one of the most prosperous kingdoms in the world, let alone the continent, slip through their control. They had offered his kingdom autonomy as well, but in exchange for his son. “There’s always something else they want.”

_I will do anything to keep my kingdom and my brother safe. I will give myself to the Barians. I will become powerful. For Haruto._

“Not in the slightest. But you have to know how to play the game, Lord Faker.” Heartland leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “Play politics right, and you can avoid bloodshed. Play politics wrong and you have war.”

To save one son, he sacrificed the other. This went far beyond politics. It crossed a moral line… didn’t it? Was it right to allow his son to make this decision? Was it right to be relieved that his son was the one who ultimately made the choice for him? He felt like a coward for even thinking it.

But if this rumor was true… perhaps Lord Astral wasn’t dead after all. They had built their conquest of the Astral Kingdom on the fact that the entire royal family was dead. If Astral was alive…

“I agree with you there, my friend.”

—-

The candle burned slowly to a nub as Captain Kamishiro worked late into the night, pen steadily roving across maps, formations, and general orders. His eyes itched with tiredness, but he knew he would not sleep until his scouting party returned, so he occupied himself with mundane work. Once he wrote the last order for the next day’s cavalry drill, he threw down his pen, glancing out the window at the mountain range separating the Astral Kingdom from the Arclight Kingdom. The waxing crescent moon hovered directly over them. His eyes travelled to a hurried note one of his messengers had returned with a few hours before, one that had chilled him to the bone. 

_Trouble in Arclight. King Byron missing. Possible Barian attack. Investigating; won’t get too close unless we find out what they did to him. –Mara_

He propped his elbows on the desk and rested his head on his folded hands. Mara was one of the last three living Dragoons; she possessed the outward calm of a river with its raging undercurrents. She looked it, too – her prematurely lined face bore crisscrossing scars that served to highlight her service to the kingdom as well as her strength in battle. As Captain-Commander, she outranked him and should have been the commander of this expedition, but she preferred fighting to issuing orders and so the job fell to him.

Even with the comfort of Mara leading the scouts, his stomach still clenched as he thought of placid King Byron’s kingdom invaded by the Barians. 

_King Byron missing._ What did that mean? Did they take him captive? Did he flee? Was he dead?

Undoubtedly Mara had figured out what had happened to Byron, or they would have been back by now. It had been a week since they had set off, and it would take them perhaps two days’ hard ride to cross the hundred miles or so across the mountains. They couldn’t be more than half a day’s ride behind the advance scout, unless they had gotten too close anyway.

He rubbed his hands across his face and let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

He sat staring at the village at the foot of the hill as the moon crept through the sky, waiting for movement to tell him that his Dragoon band was back. His shoulders relaxed when, around three o’clock, he saw the horses trotting back.

No.

He stood slowly. They weren’t trotting. They were galloping, and there weren’t enough of them.

He grabbed the gleaming silver trident propped against the wall and darted to the door, soft black boots making little noise as he sprinted to the palace entrance.

“Open the gate!” he barked as he ran by the sleepy guardsmen. “Get a Healer!”

The gate opened slowly, just in time for a slight figure in the black leather armor of a Dragoon slip off the lead horse, red lined cloak falling in a heap over her body.

“Mara!”

Captain Kamishiro fell to the ground next to her, dropped his weapon, and gently cradled her by the shoulders. Her fiery red hair clung to the wet blood coating her scarred face and she gazed at him with unfocused green eyes.

“Ryoga.” Her voice was weak, gravelly.

“Mara, what happened?” he whispered. He spared a glance up at the dozen men and women hunched in or thrown over their saddles but quickly returned his eyes to hers. There was nothing he could do until the Healer arrived – wherever she was.

“Barians,” she grunted.

His blood turned to ice.

“In the Arclight Kingdom? Are you certain?”

“They got Byron. Did something. He knew we were there. Ordered an attack.”

It was as though every nightmare scenario he had ever envisioned had tumbled on him like a rockslide.

“Byron ordered an attack?” Calm, amiable, contemplative Byron?

Mara reached up with a bloodied hand and grabbed his loose black shirt. “He isn’t the same man. They killed that Byron. The Byron that’s left is insane. Vengeful.” She spoke intently, hand shaking with the effort of gripping his shirt, body trembling against his. “The Barians have him. He signed an alliance with them. Between the two, they wiped out two thirds of us with their Hell-forged weapons. The rest of us got away mostly unscathed, but then we were ambushed by Barians near the Shrine. I’d be dead, if not for the lieutenant.” She coughed up blood onto his shirt. “Well, I’m dead anyway, but I had to tell you.”

“What about the Healer with you? Where is he?”

“Dead. Died about six hours ago as we crossed the mountains, then all our wounds opened up again about an hour ago.”

“How?”

“Those damn Barian weapons. Something in them rejects Healing.” Blood streamed from the corner of her mouth. “They’re gonna come after our kingdom next. You have to stop them.”

“What do I do?” His voice was childish, unbefitting a twenty-three year old Dragoon. He knew it, but didn’t care. Two years his elder, Mara was a talented, shrewd, sharp-tongued woman he had grown to consider as much a member of his family as his twin sister. And here she was, coughing up blood as she died from an agonizing stomach wound.

She gripped the fang dangling from a leather cord around her neck and ripped it off.

“No,” he whimpered, dread seizing his body.

“Ryoga Kamishiro,” she whispered tremulously, “I, Mara Simin, of the Last Band of the Holy Order of Dragoons, hereby relinquish my position as Captain-Commander of the Astral Kingdom’s Royal Guard -”

“No-”

“-and bestow upon you the sacred duty of carrying out the protection of the Astral Kingdom.”

Mara Simin pressed the fang against his hand and died in his arms.

A Healer in white rushed out of the palace, nightdress hiked above her knees.

“Captain-“ she breathed heavily before catching sight of Mara’s bloody body. She went rigid as he touched his forehead to Mara’s.

“May you find peace in our Mother’s arms,” he found himself murmuring as he gently placed her on the cold ground and covered her face with her cloak, “and in your lives to come.”

He stood slowly, eyes travelling over his wounded scouts. A dozen. A dozen soldiers left in the entire unit. “Heal them,” he said to the petrified woman behind him, his voice strangely distant and steady.

“Captain, what-“

“Captain-Commander,” he interrupted curtly, holding up the broken cord, the fang dangling dangerously. He raised his voice. “I have been passed the mantle of responsibility from Captain-Commander Mara Simin.”

His men gazed at him, and despite their wounds, many of which bled heavily, all but one fell to the cold earth and sank to their knees in a respectful bow.

Captain-Commander Ryoga Kamishiro turned to the last figure, slumped against his horse’s neck, eyes glazed, face pale as snow. If he hadn’t been freely bleeding from his arm, the captain would have assumed he was dead.

“Heal them, and watch for signs of relapse in the night,” he repeated to the Healer, who sank into a curtsy and rushed off to the nearest injured woman. He approached the man on the horse. “Yuma Tsukumo,” he said softly. “Captain-Commander Simin informed me that you kept her alive long enough to bring her back.”

Yuma’s red eyes flickered toward his captain’s. “Yes,” he said in barely more than a whisper.

“What happened?”

“I killed someone,” Yuma whispered. His shoulders tensed with the effort of preventing himself from breaking down. “I killed… more than one someone. Eight, nine, ten- I don’t even know, but I did it, and my sword is tainted with it. They weren’t Barians, they were people.”

Ryoga brushed his hand across Yuma’s cheek, wiping off a salty stream of tears mingled with blood.

“You became a soldier,” he said softly. “You accepted that you might have to take someone’s life, Yuma. You did it for your kingdom, for your prince. For your commander. You did a great thing that may save many yet.”

“The Captain-Commander died anyway.” He shook his head furiously, tears flowing freely. “You and your sister are the last Dragoons now that she’s d-“ His words choked off.

Ryoga shook his head. “I need you to tell me what happened, but the night is cold and you need rest and Healing. Report to me in the morning.”

He turned and walked back to the Healer, ignoring Yuma’s heavy sobs.

—-

Durbe thumbed through the journal, skimming over mundane inventory reports and registry lists. Mizael was right about it; most of the interesting things were at the beginning. He was able to piece together some of what Captain Kamishiro felt about a number of things, and discovered some mildly disturbing aspects of the captain’s personal life while he was at it.

“Mizael.” He looked up at his general, sitting stiffly in an armchair by the fire. It was a cold evening, and the library was often one of the coolest rooms in the Arclight palace.

“Mm?”

Durbe held up the journal. “What did you think about this entry about the former Captain-Commander being pregnant when she was killed?”

Mizael made a slight shuddering motion and looked into the fire. “The world is better off without more of those filthy half-breed humans running amok.”

A quiet tapping at the library door cut into Durbe’s amused reply.

“Come in.”

“Forgive me, Lord Durbe and General Mizael, but… Lord Kaito is here.”

Durbe turned in his seat. His eyes narrowed at the two men walking in. Both were unexpected. “Lord Mihael…? And Lord Kaito, what brings you to Arclight unannounced?”

Mihael paused by the door, eyes focused on the floor, and Kaito strode past, face flushed and hair windswept. “I request to speak to you, Durbe.” He spoke in a clipped tone, and Mizael made a quiet noise of disgust.

To Durbe’s relief, Mizael remained silent, though his general glared at Kaito and Kaito glared right back. “Very well… Lord Mihael, is there something else before I ask you to leave us…?”

The young man reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a tightly rolled scroll. “This came in from Lieutenant Fuya Okudaira of Heartland a short while ago. It’s addressed to you.” He approached Durbe, eyes still on the ground, lips tightened. Durbe studied his face for a moment before taking the scroll. Mihael gave a short bow and walked to the door, each step becoming quicker than the last, until he was all but jogging out the door.

With a sharp claw, Durbe neatly sliced the wax seal and unrolled it.

“Mizael.” His voice was far more alarmed than intended. How could this…

Mizael took the scroll without a word and read it through, eyes becoming wider with each line. By the end, he looked down at Durbe, Kaito’s presence all but forgotten.

“In Heartland?” he said finally. “Why the hell-”

“I don’t know.” Durbe rubbed his eyes. “Vector can’t send Barians in or he’ll violate the non-aggression pact.”

“Do you think Heartland’s aware of what this means?”

“He must be, or he wouldn’t have sent the letter, but-”

Kaito cleared his throat. “I did you the courtesy of riding all the way out here today only to be ignored, and I would appreciate you listening to what I have to say.”

Both Barians turned their gazes to him. He rolled his shoulders back and pulled his chin up, though Durbe could see him bite his lower lip and clench his fists.

“Of course. My apologies. Have a seat.” Durbe gestured at the vacant chair next to Mizael’s. Kaito pulled his cloak off as he sat. “What can we do for you?”

“I offer my soul to you in exchange for autonomy for my kingdom and for Haruto to be left alone, with no _help_ from anyone without my explicit consent.”

Durbe, halfway through lowering himself in his own seat, stood back up and shot a glance at Mizael, who, by the bewilderment in his eyes, was sure he had misheard the lord as well. “I’m… sorry?”

“You heard me perfectly well.” Kaito looked into the fire. “I’m giving you my soul. But leave Haruto alone. I will find a cure for him myself with the power that relinquishing my soul to you will grant me.”

The Barian lord shifted his robes and resumed sitting. “It doesn’t quite… work like that. Extracting a human soul is a…” He leaned his head back against his chair and let out a low breath. “It’s a terrible process.”

“You’ll wish you had offered to die instead.” Mizael’s tone held no emotion.

Kaito slowly switched his gaze from the fire to Mizael, who was watching Durbe. Durbe could see the reluctance in his face. “It surely isn’t as painful as what you are going to do to Haruto if I don’t go through with this.”

Mizael shook his head, finally tearing his eyes from Durbe’s. “Is your soul really worth so little to you?”

“It’s worth less to me than my brother. But it’s worth more than anything else I can offer.” He stood up again. “If you won’t accept, then I guess-”

“Wait.” Durbe scratched at the bridge of his nose with his pinky. He gave Mizael one last, pleading look, but Mizael was staring forlornly at the rug. “I… I will accept your offer, Kaito Tenjo.”

Mizael wordlessly stood and began walking toward the door. Durbe didn’t need to ask why. He knew. He didn’t want to do it again, either.

“I will get Alit to help me, then,” he said softly. Mizael wrenched the door open and slammed it behind him. Durbe’s shoulders slumped and he let out a quiet sigh before turning to the door. “He was right, Lord Kaito. It is… a process that you will wish killed you.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you still want this.”

“I want to save my brother.”

Their eyes met. There was so much sorrow in Kaito’s eyes, so much pain, so much _loss_.

“I hope this power you seek for your brother’s sake is worth your soul in the end,” Durbe whispered before pulling the door open. It was going to be another long night.


	13. The Price of Freedom

Kaito’s screams reverberated around the room, from high-pitched shrieking to sobs that wracked his entire body. The bindings tying him to the floor tore at his skin as his body thrashed; his bare chest shone with sweat despite the coldness of the small marble chamber. Alit knelt by the glowing crest on the floor, eyes squeezed shut against Kaito’s anguished, unintelligible screaming, pressing his hands to the crest with so much reluctance that Durbe wondered if he was going to just tear himself away.

_Just a little longer, Alit,_ he thought. _I can’t do it by myself._ He felt his energy ebbing, draining into the crest. It felt worse, somehow, than the last three times; it felt like so much more of his energy was being expended than ever before. Something was going wrong.

Kaito screamed a word, one word, _Chris_ , and pulled his body in on itself as much as the bindings would allow. Durbe didn’t want to look, but he had to, he had to make sure the ritual was correct…

…but it wasn’t.

“Alit,” he managed to say when Kaito’s screams turned to heaving sobs, “it should have been done by now.”

Alit looked at him, eyes full of disgust, revulsion, possibly hatred – Durbe couldn’t blame him if the last were directed at him – and started to pull his hands back.

“No!” Durbe slid his hand over the crest, grabbing Alit’s and forcing it back on the crest. “No, I have to… I have to figure it out.” _What’s happening? What’s going wrong?_ It had never happened before, on the five of these he had done in his life. They had been unspeakably horrible processes – only someone like Vector could really take pleasure in something like this, he had decided – but he could always tell when they were done, he could always see the formation of the soul gem.

But there was no soul gem with Kaito Tenjo. His soul’s attachment to the Astral World must have been stronger than any Durbe had dealt with. He was faithful, but this level of attachment was absurd.

If he couldn’t create a home for Kaito’s soul, he would have to use an existing one. It was dangerous, but so was continuing to pour his life energy into this crest when Kaito’s soul fought so hard against it. Something that Kaito was already attached to would make this process easier.

“Alit,” he tried again. “I need you to get his sword.”

Alit’s eyes narrowed. “What about you-”

“Do it quickly.” Durbe took a deep breath and focused on the crest. It was going to be an excruciating burden to carry out alone, but it needed to be done.

Alit lifted his hands from the crest and Kaito’s screaming continued.

—-

The faint sound of screaming filled the palace, audible even two floors above. It wasn’t a welcome sound, but it was at least familiar by now.

Mihael’s hands convulsed on his lap with each distant scream of pain. His breathing became staggered and he flinched violently. It was too soon, too fresh in his mind to drown out; he might have been hearing the sounds of his own screaming, or his brother’s. He could hear the gentle reassurance that he would live from his father. The gentle reassurance that comforted him none at all because it was his father who put him through it in the first place. He could hear the Barians arguing in low voices, he could see their blurry outlines hunched stiffly over the glowing crest on the floor, could hear their quiet incantations littered with muttered curses. He could feel the stabbing pains all over his body, as though a thousand pins were thrust into him at once, could feel the droplets of blood streaming from his pores, pooling on the floor, forming a grotesquely beautiful pink gem that he now wore on his wrist.

_Your soul_ , Mizael had spat before storming out, and Durbe had gently explained further.

_It is a physical embodiment of your soul. It is no longer able to be influenced by the Astral World, no longer really yours. Now that it is free, you hold great powers. When you die, your soul will join with those of the Barian World._

It was terrifying. He didn’t want it. He didn’t care about power, he didn’t want his soul to be trapped in the Barian World. But his father had other plans for him and Thomas and Chris, and as an ever-dutiful son, he obeyed.

Thomas watched him carefully, propping himself against a pillow on the sofa nearby. It was well past bedtime, but Mihael couldn’t sleep, and he suspected through all Thomas’s insistence that he simply _preferred the night_ , that Thomas was just as unsettled by the events taking place. “You going to be all right?”

Mihael forced himself to nod. “When it’s over.”

His brother made a soft noise of disgust and closed his eyes, stretching out. Unlike Mihael, who still wore his day clothes despite the late hour, Thomas wore a loose white shirt and yellow night trousers. “I don’t get why the hell he’s doing it. He always struck me as a faithful servant of the Astral World. Why would he sell his soul to these bastards?”

Another scream echoed from the basement chamber. A word mingled with the cries this time; _Chris_ , it sounded like. Mihael bit his lip. As if Chris could help him now.

“Where _is_ Chris?” Thomas opened one eye and frowned. “I haven’t seen him since he hurled that chair at Durbe.”

Mihael shook his head. He didn’t know, but if he were Chris, he would be leaving the palace so he didn’t have to hear this. He knew how much Chris loved Kaito, even if he tried to hide it.

“Ah well.” Thomas shifted on the couch, holding his purple gemmed bracelet up to the light. “What color do you think Kaito’s soul is going to be?”

“That is insensitive,” Mihael murmured. “He’s doing it for his brother. He needs the power of the Barian World to save his brother.” Chris had tried to do the same for his brothers, but it didn’t matter in the end. Mihael wondered if Kaito’s situation would be the same. He hoped it wouldn’t.

Thomas snorted. “Like that’s going to do any good.” He turned to look at Mihael. “Did you look at the letter?”

“I…” Mihael looked down at the shaking hands in his lap. “Yes. I resealed it. I don’t think Lord Durbe noticed.”

He had his brother’s attention now. Thomas bolted upright and leaned closer. “What did it say?”

Mihael glanced at the door. He didn’t fear that Durbe would walk through, or Gilag, who was still recovering from something, but Mizael had a penchant for showing up unannounced all over the palace. “There was a sighting of what sounded like a summon along Heartland’s mountain border.”

Thomas knitted his brow, frowning. “But there aren’t any summoners in-” His expression changed abruptly to one of comprehension. His eyes flickered to the ceiling. “The northern mountains of Heartland, you say?”

“What are you going to do?” Mihael whispered. The screaming in the basement stopped. It was now eerily quiet.

Thomas traced his finger over his gem. Mihael knew that look. Contemplative, scheming. “Father would be interested in meeting Prince Astral again, don’t you think?”

—-

Durbe slumped against the wall outside the infirmary, breathing heavily. He and Alit had dragged Kaito’s unconscious body from the basement up two staircases, and while Kaito’s body wasn’t necessarily heavy, neither Barian had much energy left. Durbe, at least, had done it before; Alit hadn’t, and the moment they were in the hallway, he slid down the wall and curled up on the floor. His body ached with weariness. He was tempted to go into the nearest room and follow suit when he heard hurried footfalls around the corner. He pushed himself off the wall and swayed for a few seconds before deciding that he was better of just leaning against it. He crossed his arms casually and glanced up at Chris, whose footsteps were muffled by the thick rug running down the corridor.

“What did you do to him?”

He couldn’t say he wasn’t surprised by the fury and anxiety etched into Chris’s face, in his eyes, and in his voice. He wasn’t even surprised when Chris grabbed him by the front of his robes and pushed him harder against the wall.

"What did you do-"

“Unhand me.”

He was definitely surprised when Chris let go and took a step back, casting a bewildered look at the sleeping general on the floor at Durbe’s feet.

Durbe brushed his robes. “Lord Christopher, I would suggest not threatening me again. I granted you a degree of leniency when your brothers’ souls were at stake, but I will not bend to you any further. Do I make myself clear?”

They locked eyes. Chris’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “What did you do to Kaito?”

It was perhaps fortunate that there was no furniture in the hall for him to throw this time. “Exactly what Lord Kaito demanded I do. I certainly didn’t want to do it.” He regretted ordering Alit to help with the ritual. It affected him far more than it affected Mizael. He would have to see whether the issue was that Alit’s soul energy was less potent than Mizael’s, and if that might have contributed to the difficulties.

Chris’s breath came out shaky. His mouth quivered. “You didn’t have to do it just because he wanted you to.”

“I don’t need to explain my actions to a human.”

“Then I don’t have to obey a monster. You trapped my soul, not my free will.”

Durbe flinched. _Monster_. The word stung, it always stung. Chris turned to the door.

“Lord Christopher.”

Chris paused, hand on the doorknob. “Make it quick.”

Durbe’s gaze dropped back to the floor. There was no need now to play at being the indifferent, calculating lord he had built himself as for so long. Chris had already seen him in his weakness. “There are only three things that cause a soul gem’s energy to deplete. Drawing directly on the power of the Barian World, sickness, and… making love.” Chris’s eyes flickered toward the door at this, and Durbe couldn’t help but wonder… But it _would_ explain a great deal. “When a soul gem depletes completely, the person will die. There are means of restoring some energy, but they are few and difficult to do.”

Chris turned his gaze to Durbe. “What does it matter to me?”

Durbe pulled himself away from the wall and bent down to pull Alit to his feet. Alit weighed more than Durbe, all muscle, and Durbe struggled to pull him up as Chris watched indifferently. Finally, Durbe managed to straighten up. “Because Lord Kaito needs to be careful how he uses it. His soul had to be torn from him irregularly and placed in an existing object, in this case, his sword. It will undoubtedly place a greater strain on his body.” He threw Alit’s arm around his shoulders and began staggering down the hall under a combination of Alit’s weight and his own exhaustion. He paused again as Chris opened the infirmary door. “Making love using physical human energy does not affect the soul energy, so he should be fine unless he discovers the Barian method, which I do not recommend he do with a sword and no soul gem.”

He felt Chris’s gaze linger on him for ten seconds too long before he heard the infirmary door close.

—-

Haruto sat by his bedside, face emotionless. When Kaito tried to smile and reach out to him, Haruto moved back. The pain in Kaito’s heart far outmatched the stinging sensation all over his body.

“I did it for you,” he tried to explain, but Haruto turned his back.

“Your search to cure me will end in your death, Brother.” Haruto’s voice was just as expressionless as his face had been.

Kaito was confused. What was wrong with him? “Haruto, I’m going to use my powers to save you-”

Haruto spun around, face contorted into a grotesque display of fury, and lunged forward, forcing his hands on Kaito’s neck. Kaito’s eyes widened in horror as he reached for Haruto’s hands, to pull them away from his neck, and he couldn’t understand-

_“How are you going to save me when you’ve killed yourself, Brother?”_

“Haru…to…”

He gasped, pushing at the hands that now rested on his shoulders-

-wait…

He blinked furiously at the sight of the blue eyes in front of him. _Not Haruto…_

“Chris?”

Chris shushed him gently and pushed him back on the bed. Kaito forced himself to breathe, to return his heart to a normal pace again. As the adrenaline wore off, he realized that the stinging sensation was much worse than before, like hundreds of needles pushing from under his skin. He lifted a bandaged hand to his neck, and found another bandage wrapped around it. He allowed himself to whimper at the pain. Chris had been through it too, right?

“Is it supposed to hurt like this?” His voice was hoarse, his throat dry. He tried to swallow, but there was no moisture.

“Here.” Chris held Kaito’s shoulders as he tipped some water into his mouth. The cool water provided some relief. “It will hurt for a little while. But the worst of it is over.”

He let Chris lower him back on the pillow and Chris pulled a straight-backed wooden chair up to the bedside. Kaito tried to hold his gaze, but couldn’t. There was something like disappointment in Chris’s eyes, and their last conversation played out in his head. _If I become stronger, I can keep my brother safe._

_If I become stronger._

What if he couldn’t? He had never felt so weak, so helpless, in his life. He reached up to his neck with a stiffly bandaged hand. He could still imagine Haruto’s fingers around it. It had never happened, but in a way, it had.

“Chris.” His voice was less hoarse now. “What powers do I have now? How can I help my kingdom and my brother?”

“Everyone is different,” Chris murmured. Kaito felt Chris’s hand take his own. He didn’t like Chris to show affection in public areas, and the Healer might come by at any moment, but he had to admit to himself that there was something comforting in the gesture. Chris knew exactly how he felt, after all. “I think we can all create the portals, but they take a lot of energy. I can also-”

Kaito tried to return the sudden pressure on his hand, but his fingers wouldn’t move the way he wanted them to. “What?”

“Kaito, please promise me that you will only use your powers to help Haruto.” There was a sudden urgency in Chris’s voice now.

“What?”

“Promise me, Kaito!”

Kaito finally drew his gaze back to Chris’s face, at the way Chris’s eyebrows creased in terror. He lifted his arm again and noticed what he should have from the beginning. “Chris, where is my soul gem?”

Chris shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “You don’t have one.”

“But…” Where was his soul? If he didn’t have a soul gem like Chris and his brothers, then…

Chris placed his other hand on Kaito’s and pressed it to his cheek. “Durbe said the extraction process was… irregular.”

“What does that mean?”

Chris released his hand and reached for the sword leaning against the bedside table. He felt it, the tingle of energy that spiked through his veins, as Chris’s fingers brushed the dragon on the wire wrap, and he knew.

“Oh my gods,” he whimpered.

“Your soul is here, Kaito.” Chris set the sword next to him on the bed. “Please, if you won’t listen to anything else I have to say for the rest of our lives, just… don’t use these powers for anything unless it is completely necessary.”

Kaito couldn’t speak. He rested his hand on the sword housing his soul as the impact of his choice hit him.

His soul wasn’t really free after all.

—-

Captain-Commander Ryoga Kamishiro leaned his head against the pane and stared blankly out the window, the fang clutched in his fist. The sky churned, spitting lightning and roaring with thunderclaps that rattled the windows. Rain wailed against the palace in torrents, spilling its tears against the tragedy. It was as if Nature herself manifested the pain in his heart at the loss of an entire band of elite soldiers and one of the three remaining members of a dying clan. _It’s our duty to save our race, Ryoga,_ Mara had told him one night three months ago, speaking very fast, as though trying to convince herself it was what she wanted. _The likelihood of producing a child with the ability is greater when both parents have it._

So he had fulfilled his part. It had been strange making love to his commanding officer. He remembered the sheer, skintight undershirt she wore, the pomegranate soap barely masking her sweat. The way her fingernails dug into his shoulders, neck, back, thighs, hips as she tried finding leverage while she straddled his waist. How she gripped him and how he felt an unwelcome sensation in his midriff, how she forced him inside her. How her nails tightened so much into his hip bone that it drew blood. He wasn’t even sure it qualified as making love; she had barely looked at him through the entire process, which lasted only a few minutes, and she left, reeking of sweat and body fluid, when she finished. Weak and numb with pain in his middle from her forceful undulations, he had lain on the bed for nearly half an hour, unable to find the energy even to slide on his pants – the only article of clothing she had bothered removing from him. She hadn’t stroked her hands on his chest, run her hands through his hair, or even kissed him. No, they did not make love. He doubt she knew how; he certainly didn’t. They simply satisfied the innate human desire to propagate the race. It was his only experience sharing a bed with another. Perhaps that was how it was really done.

“Ryoga?”

He turned his head, meeting a heavily shadowed pair of violet eyes. His twin sister stood hesitantly a few feet away. He hadn’t heard her approach.

He didn’t respond at first, but turned back to the storm raging outside, watching it with disparaging eyes. His expression unsettled her but she waited before taking a small step forward.

“Ryoga…”

“She was pregnant, you know. The commander. Three months along.”

A shiver ran up Rio’s spine and her breath caught in her throat. She had suspected it, but hearing it from her brother made it more unpleasantly realistic. She didn’t need to ask who the father was. Duty, it was always duty with him. Losing Mara broke his heart, Rio knew. She had watched him from the palace as he performed the burial ritual in the palace gardens, but it was the ritual for a family member, not a lover. She couldn’t speak.

“They’re all dead, Rio.” He shook his head. “How? They were recovering and four hours later they were dead.”

“Lady Kotori is looking for you,” Rio said softly. “When the others died, Yuma Tsukumo’s screaming was what brought her into the hospital wing.”

“Why did he survive when all the others died?” He snapped his head back to Rio and unfolded his arms. “Why did Yuma Tsukumo live when he had the same injuries?”

“Are you angry that he lived?” Rio said in disbelief. “It’s not like he wanted to be the only survivor.”

“Everyone wants to live, Rio.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Maybe you should talk to him for a change. I have never seen anyone with less will to live before in my life.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and left her brother to watch the storm.

—-

Ryoga Kamishiro woke, slowly this time. His head spun; he felt like throwing up. He struggled to sit up against the dizziness and hunched over, head in his hands. Rio slept next to him, her face pale as she mumbled unintelligibly.

It was dark, and cold. The Dragoon Shrine was not built as a place of permanent refuge, but as a supply post and temporary protection from Barians, and hadn’t been used in a year, to his knowledge; at least, not since the Barian invasion of Arclight.

Not since the Barians killed his squad.

He placed a hand on his stomach. The wound tingled, but it no longer bled. The one on his thigh gave a dull throb.

Had they been there only a week? Why was he still sick?

He pulled the heavy blanket from his body and winced at the chill as he stumbled from the lumpy cushion they had found to sleep on.

The two of them had spent most of the week in prayer and meditation, applying ointments to their wounds, and resting. Ryoga was sure he had dreamed every terrible thing that had happened in his life from the attack on his village to last week, but it seemed his memory continued to find things to torment him with.

From the wetness on his sister’s face, he knew she was having the same dreams.


	14. An Oath of Treason

“…all found dead just a short ways from the Shrine. It had to have been the Kamishiros.”

“How long?”

“About a week.”

Hushed voices drifted into the infirmary from the hall outside, drawing Kaito out of his uneasy rest. His body still ached, but instead of being sharp pains, it was a dull stiffness, not much different from the times he had come down with a fever. His bandaged hand brushed against something warm, and he finally opened his eyes, his breath hitched in his throat as he tore his hand away from the sword lying next to him. It shouldn’t have felt warm. It was metal; it should have been cool to the touch.

Chris wasn’t there, either. Maybe it was for the best.

“…what Durbe thinks.”

“He’s worried, and frankly, if he’s not going to tell us why-”

Kaito looked over in time to see Alit enter the room, followed by an enormous Barian whose name Kaito couldn’t recall. Alit held himself with none of the usual swagger; his broad shoulders were slumped and his brows furrowed. The large Barian walked with a distinct stiffness in his shoulders, holding his arms rigidly by his side with each step. Both had a curious, helmet-like outcrop on their faces; much different from the seamless skin on Durbe’s face or the masklike, winged protrusion on Mizael’s.

They stopped when they realized Kaito was awake and watching them, and Alit straightened up unconvincingly. “You’re awake. Good. Durbe sent me to check… a few things.” He eyed Kaito’s sword with narrowed eyes.

“Such as?” Kaito sat up, his hand reaching subconsciously for his sword.

Alit noticed. “No need to get uptight about it.” He pulled a small vial from an inner pocket and set it roughly on the side table. “Drink that. When you’re done, remove your shirt.”

Kaito lifted an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Just drink the damn potion. We don’t have all day.” The large Barian crossed his arms.

Without taking his gaze from the two, Kaito reached over and picked up the vial with stiff fingers. It smelled awful; like decaying citrus. He grimaced and drank it as quickly as he could, gagging on the overwhelmingly sour flavor. Despite its potency, he could feel the dull throbbing ebb somewhat. Fighting the urge to throw up, his fingers fumbled over the buttons of his sickbed clothing. As he pulled it off, he glanced down at his chest and let out a terrified whimper.

Alit made a soft noise of disgust and leaned over Kaito, who recoiled from Alit’s attempt to touch him. “Don’t you dare lay a hand on me,” he spat, placing his hand over the protruding veins covering the area over his heart. Touching them made him queasy, like he was touching a parasite that had burrowed its way into his skin. The urge to throw up intensified, but he clenched his teeth to hold it back.

“Move your hand or Gilag will move it for you. Neither of us in a very good mood and I promise you I don’t want to touch you either.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just look at it.”

Slowly, Kaito lowered his hand and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see the grotesque display on his body, nor did he want to see the Barian’s face. He tensed at the claw touching his chest, tracing the veins, before the hand withdrew. Kaito opened his eyes in time to see Alit exchange a grim look with Gilag.

“What?”

Alit jerked his head at Gilag and the pair headed back toward the door without a second glance at Kaito.

“What’s wrong with me?”

Alit paused. “Durbe is really the only one qualified to tell you that.”

Kaito placed his hand over his heart again as the door closed.

—-

Alit and Gilag walked side by side in silence toward the east wing. Durbe had dragged Alit along with him as far as he could get from the infirmary before dropping Alit on a bed and collapsing on the floor next to it. Alit woke first; when he found Durbe’s unconscious body on the floor he had promptly alerted the Healers. Yet upon awakening, Durbe had insisted on their treating Alit first, and when Alit was cleared, asked him to check on Kaito.

At this rate, Durbe was going to kill himself before he could sort out the problems facing him.

As they reached the intersecting hallway to Durbe’s chambers, Mizael swept from the opposite direction, hands clenched. He wore his golden travelling cloak, which was an oddity in itself; where would Mizael be going without Durbe?

Mizael came to a stop when he caught a glimpse of his fellow generals. “Have you seen them?” he demanded without preamble.

Alit held out his hands and raised an eyebrow. “Seen who?”

“The two younger Arclight brothers. They’re not in their chambers, they’re not in the common areas, they’re nowhere that I can find in this palace.”

Gilag scowled. “Do they matter right now?”

“King Byron wants them,” Mizael snapped.

_Oh_. Gilag glanced down at Alit, who furrowed his brows. “I haven’t seen either of them since before… since yesterday afternoon.” _Since before my soul energy was depleted for a selfish prince_. He felt anger toward Durbe for forcing him to go through with it… but at the same time, Durbe had borne the brunt of the ritual. Any of the other lords would have expended as little energy as they could get away with, or perhaps even have forced others to do the ritual while they watched.

Mizael rubbed his face. His body was stiff, his eyes narrowed almost to slits. “Damn those little bastards,” he muttered, half to himself. He turned back to Alit. “Did you need to talk to Durbe?”

Alit briefly explained Kaito’s lingering physical abnormality and Mizael let out a disgusted _humph_. “I’ll let Durbe know. I need to talk to him anyway. I need you two to set out some scouts and look for the Arclights.”

“Where?” Alit asked skeptically. “They can make portals. They could be anywhere they’ve ever been before.”

Mizael studied a portrait of a long-dead former king for a moment, shaking his head ever so slightly. He seemed to be arguing with himself. Alit would have preferred to see Mizael in his human body at that moment; it was much easier to read Mizael’s human face. Finally, he spoke. “North Heartland. Send a small squad to North Heartland. Very small, mind you. Three or four. We don’t want them noticed.”

He turned and strode down the hall, ignoring Alit’s bewildered stare.

“Why?” he muttered when Mizael was out of earshot. “Why would they be there?”

Gilag shrugged. “Can’t really argue with him, can we? Let’s just hope the Arclight brothers aren’t as bloodthirsty as the Kamishiros.”

—-

Durbe looked up at Mizael like a child who had been caught breaking his parents’ rules. With each scathing word that Mizael spat at him, Durbe flinched, and his hands clenched on his blankets.

_You could have killed Alit._

_You could have killed Kaito._

_You almost killed yourself._

_He deserves every word,_ Mizael convinced himself. _He’s behaving stupidly and recklessly._

When he paused to compose himself, Durbe shifted and pulled his blankets closer. He looked more drained than Mizael had ever seen him. His eyes were dull, his skin tight, and his body showed signs of malnourishment that Mizael hadn’t seen on him since their days as new recruits. He looked like a man on his deathbed.

“It was the only way,” Durbe murmured. “We command Tenjo now and not a drop of blood was shed. It was worth it.”

“If you had died, we would be trapped with six lords with six different agendas clamoring to control things,” Mizael snapped. “That would certainly _not_ be worth it.”

“I am prepared to give my life for my cause.” Durbe’s voice was a little stronger at this. He turned his gaze from the hanging canopy above his bed to Mizael. “Didn’t you accept that, when you gave me your oath of loyalty?”

_I intend to abolish the system of the Seven Lords and bring up one ruler to unite the Barian Empire. Fragmented rule leads to chaos and competition. One ruler will bring us together. Only together will we achieve our dreams._

_That’s treason, Durbe._

_It’s reality. If we stay as we are, we will perish. If my dreams for the benefit and prosperity of my homeland brand me a traitor, then so be it. I will accept my fate knowing I tried to save my people._

Mizael wordlessly shook back the sleeve on his travelling cloak and held it out to Durbe. On his forearm was a small, faded scar. Thirty years ago, Durbe had pierced himself with a Barian knife, then Mizael, and they had gripped arms tightly as their blood mingled together. They had been young recruits, in the Barian army for only a few weeks, when they had run into each other in a dark library after hours and made a decision that would make or ruin them.

A blood oath. A blood oath to treason.

“You trusted me. I trusted you. I remember every word of my oath to you, Durbe. Every word.”

_I swear to willingly and obediently serve and protect Durbe, who will unite my homeland under his wise rule. I will lay down my life to defend his, and search out the greatest power of the Barian World to achieve this goal._

“Do you remember yours?”

Durbe closed his eyes. “I swear to be a wise and generous ruler, unable to forget the efforts of those who lift me. As such, I will help Mizael find and contain the power he requires to help defend the home we both love so dearly.” He opened his eyes again and stretched out an arm. Mizael took it, right below the crook of the elbow, as Durbe held Mizael’s forearm with a weak grip.

“You need to live,” Mizael whispered. “Fulfill your oath, Durbe, and don’t do something like this again.”

“I need time to rest,” Durbe murmured, finally releasing Mizael. He slumped back on his pillows. “I’m so tired.”

“Don’t move from this bed until you have strength enough to stand without requiring anything to hold you up.”

Durbe’s eyes creased in a small smile as he closed them. “What is the state of Kaito’s body? Alit said he would be back with a report, but…”

In his haste to berate Durbe for his actions, Mizael had forgotten to pass that information along. He didn’t see any need to concern Durbe with something that Durbe had no control over. He would let Durbe rest first. “He’s weak. The Healers are tending to him.”

Durbe nodded sleepily. “Has the chest swelling gone down?”

_Damn it_. “It’s been only a day since the ritual.”

Durbe’s eyes opened again. “That’s… not what I…” He tried to sit up. Mizael placed his hands on either shoulder and pushed him back. Durbe grabbed his hands, face twisted in worry. “Mizael, the failure of his body to produce a soul gem could have caused the blood to pool to the surface instead of escaping through his pores like it should have. He won’t survive a week in that condition.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Mizael murmured. “Stay in bed, Durbe.”

“Mizael-”

“I said I’ll take care of it.” Mizael released Durbe’s shoulders, but Durbe didn’t let go of his hands. Mizael let him hold them until he finally drifted off to sleep.

He was relieved that Durbe hadn’t asked about his travelling cloak. He had been foolish to wear it to see Durbe… but he would take the matter of the missing Arclights into his own hands.

—-

Rio rubbed her brother’s back, grimacing as he threw up over the side of the stairs. She had hoped that taking him outside for some clean air might help his sudden, violent bouts of nausea, but so far she had been disappointed. It had been over a week since they had arrived at the Dragoon Shrine, and he was still in no fit shape to go anywhere. Time was running out, and they would have to cover ground at twice the rate to get to Tenjo on schedule.

Ryoga shook as he dropped his head back in his sister’s lap. She brushed his hair out of his sweaty face and sighed. “I think you’re getting worse, Ryoga.”

He mumbled incoherently in reply.

Truthfully, she hadn’t been feeling her best either, though she was by no means as ill as her brother. Her sleep had been plagued with memories of her village burning, of Barians giving chase after the three young Dragoons who fled westward to the safety of the Astral Kingdom. The things that she remembered, the smell of the burning bodies, the taste of smoke on the air, didn’t help her unsettled stomach.

“Come on.” She pulled his arm over her shoulder and hoisted him up. Without his armor, he was much lighter than he had been as they trekked up the mountain, but she was tired and he was still heavier than she.

She dragged him through the entrance hall, a circular room built entirely out of stone, with a high ceiling and small torches that cast eerie shadows over them. Down the side corridor to the left were the dozen bedrooms; to the right were the kitchen and latrines. She took him to the right, to the kitchens, and dumped him in a chair as she searched the cabinets for some kind of spices to fashion into a soup. There were precious few provisions that were still useable. She thought about reprimanding her brother for letting the Shrine be neglected for a year without bothering to resupply it, but his pale, clammy face looked so pitiful that she decided to save it for another day.

“Ryoga, I found some dried noodles, so I’m going to make you a soup out of it. I expect you to drink it all.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt and slumped forward on the table.

When the soup was finished, she had to shake him gently to wake him up. He gazed blearily at the bowl and reluctantly picked up his spoon.

“How is it?” she ventured after he had eaten a few spoonfuls.

“Bland as hell.”

_Typical._

“Thanks,” he muttered.

She nodded and began eating some of her own. It _was_ bland, and she grimaced. But they both needed to eat.

“I wonder how they’re doing,” he said suddenly, staring into his soup. “They should be in central Heartland by now.”

She blew gently on her soup and studied his expression. He looked forlorn, his eyes heavily shadowed and framed by creased brows. “If they keep out of the cities, they should be fine. It’ll take longer to detour around them, but it’s safer.”

“Safer.” Ryoga stared into the broth in his bowl. His shoulders slouched. “I hope he doesn’t have to kill anyone.”

Rio set her spoon down and reached for her brother’s hand. To her surprise, he didn’t pull away. “He wouldn’t unless it was completely necessary.”

“Even so.” He looked up. “Rio, did I ever tell you about what he was like… that day? When the rest of them died?”

That day. Ryoga never referred to the day of the Arclight Kingdom’s fall any other way. Rio had seen Yuma that morning, screaming in his sleep, tearing his bedsheets, a completely broken man. She couldn’t imagine how much worse he could have gotten. “No.”

Ryoga leaned his head back, resting it on the back of the chair. “After I told you about Mara, I went to see him…”

—-

Captain-Commander Kamishiro wasn’t alone when he approached the hospital wing. A man dressed in black mourning silks that contrasted with his pale skin, making him look nearly translucent, stood at the door, looking in the small window leading to the quarantine room from which Ryoga heard anguished sobbing.

“Lord Astral,” Ryoga murmured, giving the man a deep bow, hand resting on the hilt of the sword he carried at his waist. “What brings you here?”

“Captain.” The prince inclined his head courteously, taking in the Captain-Commander’s dark leather armor down to the black leather boots and red-lined black cloak trailing behind him. “I heard one man survived the scouting party to the Arclight Kingdom, so I came to see him.” His eerily mismatched eyes flicked back to the window. “Though I wonder if ‘survived’ is the right word.”

Ryoga stepped closer and followed the prince’s gaze. Yuma curled up on the bare cot, hands clenching his hair as he shook violently.

“Where are his bedsheets?” Ryoga asked quietly.

“Lady Kotori removed them when he tried to hang himself with them,” Astral said rigidly.

Ryoga felt a sickening clench in his stomach. “Has he said anything about… about last night?”

The prince shook his head imperiously. “He’s been cursing the gods that he didn’t die with them.” He placed a stark-white hand on Ryoga’s shoulder. “I am grieved at your loss, Captain. Our kingdom mourns for those taken by the Barians.”

Ryoga gently removed the prince’s hand and opened the door to the room. Astral followed him in, but stood back by the door as Ryoga approached the shaking man on the cot.

“Yuma Tsukumo.”

Yuma glanced up slowly, terror evident in his red eyes.

“On your knees,” the captain commanded in the same flat voice.

Yuma whimpered. “Leave me, Captain. I failed them, all of them-“ He cut off as the captain reached down and seized him by the front of his shirt and yanked him off the bed onto the floor.

“I gave you an order and I expect it to be obeyed,” the captain continued as though Yuma had not spoken. “You will not disobey me again.”

Yuma’s hands and knees pressed into the cold marble floor as his chest shuddered to take in air.

“Tell me what happened last night.”

Yuma shook his head.

With a heavy, frustrated breath, Ryoga drew his sword and placed it inches from Yuma’s throat. Astral made a noise of alarm, but the captain ignored it. He waited.

“Will you kill me?” Yuma whispered. Pleading. The sight of him made Ryoga’s stomach churn with anger, pain, disgust, sadness. He kept his face impassive.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I want your answer. Only a man who has embraced his past and prepared for his death deserves the honor of death.”

Yuma’s face paled. He couldn’t speak.

The captain slammed his sword point into the ground, making the younger man jump slightly.

“You’re afraid to die, but you’re more afraid that you’ve killed. Taking another’s life isn’t so easy, is it, Yuma Tsukumo?”

Astral hovered by the door, watching Yuma’s shoulders shake and the captain’s shoulders remain stiff as a board. The expression in the captain’s eyes… it wasn’t the same cold indifference he spoke with. It was a deep concern.

The captain reached down and pulled Yuma by his shirt again, pulling him to his feet, until they were eye level. Noses barely a finger’s width apart, Ryoga whispered to him.

“I need to know what happened, so I don’t make that mistake again. And you need to tell me so you can come to grips with the fact that you killed someone. The unpardonable sin, isn’t it, Yuma? Is that why you’re afraid? Let the gods sort out your personal bullshit and feelings of self-loathing in the afterlife and get on with your damn life while you’re still here.”

Yuma’s eyes moved between Ryoga’s eyes and his lips and back again. “I can’t, Ryoga,” he whispered back.

Ryoga let out an enraged yell and shoved Yuma into the marble wall. He heard a sickening crunch followed by a pained cry. Kotori burst in behind Astral and let out a shriek but Astral held his arm out, stopping her.

“You spineless coward!” the captain roared, yanking Yuma toward him again. “Do you remember what I said to you on your first day of training?”

Yuma whimpered in pain.

“I told you that you didn’t look like you’d last a week!” Ryoga shoved Yuma into the wall again, ignoring Kotori’s cries of protest and Yuma’s gasps for air. He leaned his face close again. “You told me something I haven’t forgotten. Do you remember what it was?”

A choked squeak, a barely perceptible whisper of his name.

Ryoga shoved Yuma farther up the wall. “You told me that you would never give up. Never. If your friends died around you, if you faced death yourself, you would fight. You would fight because people were counting on you and if you gave up, they would suffer for it. You said you’d always _bring it_ to the people hurting your friends, no matter what. You said your father called it a _kattobing_ spirit.” A nonsensical word, but one that meant a great deal to Yuma. “Well, guess what?”

“Ryoga, please,” Kotori whispered in horror, grabbing his arm. He ignored her.

“Your friends are dead, Yuma. The rest of us are going to be unless you tell us what happened. And yet you’ve given up. Where’s your _kattobing_ now?”

Slowly, painfully, a look of comprehension, of agony, appeared in Yuma’s eyes.

“I understand,” he whispered finally.

Ryoga slowly lowered Yuma to the ground and released his clutch on the shaking man, who collapsed on the bed.

“Heal him,” he said indifferently to Kotori, who shot him a withering glare before placing her hands on Yuma’s chest.

Ryoga watched as she closed her eyes and murmured in an almost songlike voice in a prayer-like tongue. As she murmured, a soft light spread from her hands and settled across Yuma’s chest, causing him to shudder as though doused with a bucket of ice water.

She pulled her hands back and glared at Ryoga again. “I will not stand by as you injure my patients in my presence again, Captain,” she said, tone clipped. “I don’t care how important you think you are.”

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Astral continued his silent sentinel by the door, arms crossed, though his eyebrows raised at Kotori’s ire.

“Now.” Ryoga pulled a chair up to the bedside. His voice was gentle now. “Tell me everything.”

—-

“…you’ve read the reports he wrote on what happened next. How they all died. How Yuma tried to save Mara.” Ryoga met her eyes. She felt sick again, and no amount of bland soup could help soothe her stomach. She understood now why her brother didn’t want Yuma to kill anyone else. The act of killing, even in self-defense and for the protection of those around him, had hurt his soul.

But she remembered one part of Yuma’s report. How he had chased down the Barian that had stabbed Mara, chased him down and thrust his sword into its body four times, five, six – _I don’t know, I lost track of how many times I did it_ – even well after it had died.

_I told him not to let revenge move him to foolishness,_ Ryoga had said, and the sudden realization of just how broken the pair of them were hit her painfully.

She squeezed Ryoga’s hand in what she hoped was a comforting way.

“I think we should leave at sundown,” she whispered. “We have so much to do, and we can’t… we can’t know how much longer you’ll be sick.”

He nodded and rubbed at the bags under his eyes. “We’ve got a few hours left to get some things together, then.” He pushed the dregs of the cold soup away and climbed, shaking, to his feet.

—-

Mizael froze at the sight of Alit sprinting down the hall toward him. Alit was never in this much of a hurry, so what-

“What is it?” Mizael reached out a hand and caught a handful of Alit’s cloak as the other general tried to barrel past.

“Let go, I need to see-”

“Durbe is getting some much-needed rest. Whatever it is can surely wait until-”

Alit shook his head and tore free from Mizael’s grip. “No, it can’t!” His voice was panicked. “Lord Kaito is missing!”


	15. The Dragon Hunter

The Wyvern Forest comprised half of the total area of the Arclight Kingdom, separated from the eastern grasslands comprising the other half of the kingdom by the Heraldry River. To the far north of the forest lay the ruins of a once-proud village of warriors, now whittled to near extinction by a race of creatures from beyond the desert to the east of Arclight.

Building goods and ships from the hearty wood in the forest was Arclight’s main industry. The forest paths were well-travelled and well-maintained.

These were not the paths the last of the Dragoons took.

Rio was unusually quiet as she followed close behind her brother, stepping through tall bushes full of burrs that caught on their boots and the hems of their cloaks. Her sickness had abated after a day or so, but it had taken Ryoga nearly four days to get back to full health. Whatever it was that had made him sick had slowed them down tremendously, and they had been forced to stop several times while he leaned against a tree and threw up, or simply to rest when he got dizzy.

The closer they got to the Wyvern Arena in the heart of the forest, the more uneasy she felt; despite their caution in going off the path to avoid any stray travelers or loggers, she still had the lingering sensation that they weren’t quite as alone as they’d thought.

“We’re almost to the Arena,” Ryoga said after a while. “If we play it safe we might be able to stop by and pick up some supplies.”

“This is Barian country now,” she reminded him. “What if there are Barians there?”

“We could just kill them,” he muttered. She rolled her eyes. For as much bravado as he pretended to have, she knew how much he hated himself for the slaughter in the mountains.

“You’re going to draw more unwanted attention to us.”

“What do you mean _more_?” He turned to face her, frowning, and she made a slight motion with her hand, pointing discreetly at something behind her. His eyes flicked over her shoulder. There was nothing there that he could see. He looked back at Rio, and she lifted an eyebrow.

“There’s a trail of blood all the way from the palace to the Shrine, Ryoga,” she said conversationally, motioning him onward. They started moving again. “If you don’t think the Barians have looked at that and put two and two together by now you’re an idiot.”

They entered a large clearing, sun hovering above the treeline to the west, and Rio’s feeling of unease spiked. In the trees, Dragoons were unmatched, but in the open…

A slight flutter, the softest whisper through the breeze-

She didn’t have time to get her rapier, but there was just enough time to dart to the side as a thin sword jabbed at the air where she had been milliseconds before. The sword flashed in the soft sun, following her movement in an arc. She couldn’t react; she was on the defensive and didn’t have time to reach her rapier-

-but what speed!

Its owner lunged for her again, only this time, Ryoga intervened.

He hated swords, he always had; but since his lance had been destroyed in his last fight, he had to make do with what he had. He may have not been anywhere near Rio’s level with a blade, but he was still competent enough, and thanks to him, she had time to draw her rapier and get a good look at the sword’s owner.

He and Ryoga were around the same height, though without any armor, this man looked trimmer. He dressed in a bizarre white uniform complete with a blue sash, and his sword was of fine workmanship, with a dragon twined around it.

But what caught her attention most were his eyes – one a greyish color, the other red, and around the red eye was a curious blue marking.

“Who the hell are you?” Ryoga growled, thrusting his sword forward so the man was forced to stumble back from the force.

The man stepped back, out of Rio’s range, and looked between the twins with something Rio could only describe as contempt.

“I am Kaito Tenjo,” he said in a soft voice. A dangerous voice. “I will offer you one chance to pray for your souls before I kill you.”

—-

Kaito waited for the Barians’ footsteps to fade before reluctantly grabbing his sword and pulling himself out of the bed. It felt bizarre in his hands; warm, where it should have been cold. His fingertips tingled.

He found his clothes folded neatly on a table near the door, and before he could talk himself out of it, pulled off his infirmary-issued pants and tugged his uniform on, determinedly not looking at his chest in the process. It disgusted him, made him sick, terrified him what they had done. What he had demanded they do.

_All found dead a short ways from the Shrine._

_It had to have been the Kamishiros._

The Kamishiros… he knew of them. He remembered well the night his father sat him down and told him that the Barians had annihilated the entire Dragoon race. He had known little of the Dragoons, so he had taken it upon himself to learn about them on his own. A tightknit community that distrusted outsiders and married inside the culture to prevent a diffusion of their sacred bloodline. A community that cast out those who showed no gift, as well as those who showed romantic inclinations toward the same gender. A puritanical race, to be sure, but skilled warriors that had once possessed great healing powers and agility.

He had given it little thought for many years, but the Dragoons were also said to be the only humans outside of the Astral Kingdom’s royal family who directly carried the powers of the Astral World in their blood.

With the royal family dead, the only ones who carried the power he needed for Haruto were these Kamishiros… the last of the Dragoons.

If the Barians could take his soul, couldn’t he take another’s?

_A short ways from the Shrine._

He slipped into the hallway, peering both ways, ears straining for the sound of returning footsteps, but he heard none. All the better. The Barians couldn’t know he was leaving until he was gone.

—-

If there was one thing that Mizael realized too late that he took Durbe granted for, it was Durbe’s diplomacy.

He paced the hall near Durbe’s room, alternately running his hands across his face and clenching them. He had been all over the palace, in every room, three times. There was still no sign of the Arclights – he couldn’t even find Chris – and to top it off, even Kaito had vanished from the infirmary.

_What a damn disaster._

He restrained himself from knocking a porcelain vase full of roses from a small table by a window just in time for two figures to round the corner and head in his direction. One was an unfortunate sight and the other was not only unfortunate but also the last person he wanted to see right then.

“General Mizael.”

“Lady Polara.”

She was in her human form, dark brown hair adorned with blood-red ribbons. Much like the red markings under Mizael’s own eyes in his human form, two green streaks stood out against her olive skin, matching her eyes and heavily applied lipstick; unlike Mizael's markings, however, hers were not permanent. She wore shimmering green silks, from the long-sleeved gown embroidered in silver to the sheer shawl draped around her shoulders.

“Have you found my sons, General?” the second figure inquired.

Lord Byron had been a peaceable man, like his father before him. He had learned to adapt to the fact that the Arclight Kingdom shared a border with every other kingdom on the continent, and had managed to ensure his kingdom’s prosperity and peace for over thirty years.

When the Barians had invaded, Byron refused to negotiate.

He had been tortured to the point of insanity, and to that day, Mizael hated himself for ever taking part in that campaign.

“I… have not.”

Byron smiled humorlessly and tilted his head. He looked exactly the same as the Byron of a year ago, with a high-collared buttoned grey shirt and crisply ironed trousers. Even his long braid was the same. The only difference was the permanently manic look in his lined face. “Where could they possibly be, General Mizael?”

“I don’t know.” His voice was much too disrespectful. He would pay for that later.

Polara scowled at him. “You have no place to talk to anyone like that, General.”

He switched his gaze back to Polara and they glared at each other until Byron intervened. “If you would be so kind as to direct us to Lord Durbe’s quarters?”

Mizael winced just enough for Polara to notice.

“Is Lord Durbe here?”

“He’s… resting.” Byron didn’t know about Kaito, or there was at least the hope that he didn’t, but Polara was definitely not to know. Durbe had acted without the express permission of the other lords, and if she knew he was incapacited because of it-

“Resting? From what?”

“He’s tired.”

Polara rolled her eyes. Such a human reaction. “Thank you, General Mizael, for clarifying why Lord Durbe might be napping. Obviously he’s tired. Why?”

The next words slipped from Mizael before he could stop them. “He’s been running himself ragged doing your work for-” He flinched.

Byron made a small noise that might have been a combination of amusement and disbelief and he lifted an eyebrow. “How positively audacious of you, General. I see why Lord Durbe keeps you around. Is this his room?” He started to step toward the door. Mizael hesitated for a split second before stepping in front of him, blocking his path.

“General Mizael, you will be in such trouble for this,” Polara warned.

“Durbe is resting,” Mizael repeated stubbornly. He wasn’t going to move unless he was physically removed. Durbe needed rest to keep his soul gem from draining, and more importantly, they couldn’t know about Kaito. That much was certain.

“Unwavering loyalty,” Byron remarked. “What a wonderful quality. Pity you have so many other unsavory character traits.” He smiled, a horribly twisted expression that sent shivers through Mizael’s body. “I suppose I will have to come back another time when Lord Durbe is feeling better.”

“I suppose so.”

Byron gestured to Polara, who stepped closer to Mizael. He looked down on her. “You will report to Baria in three days for a formal hearing on your behavior, General Mizael. I would recommend keeping silent in the meantime.” She turned on her heel and followed Byron, her skirt trailing behind her gracefully.

He watched her round the corner and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. He had handled that undiplomatically, but at least they were still unaware of the situation with the Tenjo Kingdom. For now.

He hoped Durbe would be well enough in three days to be there for his hearing. He wasn’t sure he could face the other Barian lords without Durbe’s support.

—-

“You left your kingdom,” Kaito said in a loud voice, as though he were a judge sentencing them to death. Maybe he considered himself a judge, to an extent. “You abandoned your king and queen and prince to the Barians. You deserve nothing short of death for your cowardice.”

“You’re one to talk of abandoning his kingdom,” the man spat, steadying his sword. “How the hell did you even find us?”

Kaito glanced to the side, where the woman was cautiously circling around, just out of reach. Perhaps he had been a little overzealous in daring to take on two Dragoons at once, but from the way the man held his sword, it wasn’t his primary weapon. The woman might present a challenge. He knew a Barian blade when he saw one. What kind of Astralite warrior would even _touch_ a Barian blade? She didn’t even seem bothered by it. “It’s not of import.”

The man snorted. “I think it’s pretty damn important, _Lord Kaito_. Did the Barians send you? Is the Tenjo Kingdom part of the Barian Empire now? Have you gone to bed with those soulless monsters?”

Kaito abandoned all calm at these words and lunged at him. His body was lighter, faster than it had ever been before, his blade responding at his _thought_.

Well, it _was_ part of him now.

The man stumbled back, clumsily parrying the strike. Kaito felt the air behind him rustle ever so slightly and spun his blade to meet the woman’s attack.

He was faster, stronger, more attuned to his surroundings as he drew on his new powers, the powers he gave his soul for.

He could take on five Dragoons like this.

Still, the woman was the bigger threat. He turned his attention to her, nimbly dancing away from the man’s strikes, and thrust his sword – one, two, three – there, on the third jab, he jabbed neatly into her shoulder. She let out a cry of agony and her hand reflexively dropped her rapier as she fell to her knees, instinctively pulling up to stifle the blood in her shoulder; he relished the look of fear in her eyes as he pulled his arm back-

“Rio!”

The man assumed a dangerously offensive two-handed stance and sliced at Kaito’s weak side. He jumped back lightly and parried, catching the man off balance; even on his weak side he held the advantage. He caught the man’s ankles with his foot, causing the man to sprawl face-first into the soft earth. Kaito kicked him over onto his back and stepped on his wrist, forcing his grip on his sword to slacken. He bent down and tossed the sword away before straddling the man’s stomach.

He had to admire him. Even in defeat, his eyes were filled with disgust and fury instead of fear.

Kaito glanced to the side. The woman – Rio? – was pale and shaking, still holding her shoulder. At the sight of her brother lying under Kaito, she made to pick up her rapier but Kaito held his sword to the man’s throat.

“Ryoga-” she began in a weak voice, but Kaito shook his head.

“I wouldn’t make any rash decisions unless you want me to slit his throat.”

She froze. In a way, he was relieved.

He had never killed anyone before.

He turned his attention back to the man – Ryoga, she had called him. Rio and Ryoga Kamishiro. The names were familiar now. Ryoga had been a commander in the Astral military, and Rio was his twin sister. He had met them briefly, maybe five years ago, when his father had gone to Astral for a friendly dinner with the Astral family.

“The last Dragoons,” he whispered. How was he going to do this? If he used the sword containing his gem, would it draw out the Kamishiros’ souls into the sword? Or would it kill them, and with it, any chance of procuring the power he needed?

Ryoga looked down at the sword at his throat. “We were trying to reach you.”

“Me?” Kaito narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because Lord Astral isn’t dead.”

These words hit Kaito hard. He pulled his hand up slightly. “Impossible,” he muttered, but was it? Was there a possibility that…

No, these Kamishiros were cowards, and liars; if Lord Astral was still alive, why did they leave him? Where was he?

“We split up,” Ryoga said as though reading his mind. His voice was shaky now. He was scared; good. He had no right to speak to the heir to the Tenjo throne with anything less than respect and fear.

“Why?”

“Lord Astral and… and a couple of others went to Heartland City to convince Lord Heartland to fight the Barians. Rio and I…”

“Were coming to ask my father to do the same.” Kaito considered this for a moment. If Lord Astral was alive, maybe…

But then, he didn’t know how willing the Kamishiros were to lie to save themselves. What if Astral was dead after all? He would lose his one chance… his one chance to save Haruto.

“I’ll take my chances,” he whispered, and instinctively thrust his hand forward onto Ryoga’s chest.

Whatever he was doing seemed to be causing the man a great deal of agony; he screamed and thrashed, cutting the edge of Kaito’s sword into his neck, drawing a thin line of blood.

His hilt burned red-hot, and with a gasp he cast it to the side and pulled his hand away from Ryoga’s chest. His screaming abated immediately, replaced by sharp, shaky breaths.

“…the hell… did you do?” Ryoga’s eyes displayed fear now. It was too late for Kaito to take pleasure in it.

“Ryoga,” Rio whimpered.

A jolt of pain shot through Kaito’s chest. He flinched and put his hand over his heart. It was throbbing. His hand clenched over it as he climbed to his feet and recovered his sword. It had cooled considerably, but he still felt the warmth of the metal through his glove.

“The gods have pitied you today,” he breathed. Bile rose in his throat. He refused to show weakness in front of these Kamishiros and forced it down. “Do not forget that I will have you at my mercy. Your power will belong to me.”

He formed a portal behind him and vanished into it.

—-

Ryoga leaned his sister against a tree and dabbed ointment on her wound. It was deep, but she didn’t complain about the pain or the fact that his hand shook with each pat, though she flinched when the ointment bubbled. He pulled out the last roll of bandages and wrapped it tightly before sitting back and sighing. They were running woefully low on supplies, and they were still three days out from the Arena. He wasn’t even sure if they would be able to find this ointment there, unless they could convince a Healer to make more.

Rio moved her arm experimentally. “Lady Kotori’s help would be nice right now,” she said with a weak laugh.

“Yeah.” He ran his hand over his breastplate. His chest still tingled after whatever Kaito had done – it had been agonizing, far worse than anything the Barian weapons had ever caused him.

Rio started tugging off his armor, and he let her. After she pulled his breastplate off, she lifted his shirt and ran her fingers over his chest. There was no mark of any kind, nothing to indicate anything had happened. “What did he do?”

“I don’t know.” Ryoga glanced into the treeline where Kaito had vanished. In his experiences, only higher ranking Barians had the privilege to use the transportation portals. He remembered the way Kaito’s eyes had widened, the way he had tossed his sword aside as though it had burned him. “I don’t think he knew either.”

“Is Tenjo lost to them, then?” Rio’s voice shook.

He tugged his shirt down and sat next to her against the tree, pulling her into a gentle hug. “It seems it might be.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Now what? Do we keep going?”

He shook his head slowly. He didn’t have an answer.

—-

Kaito fell from the portal, knees hitting soft, cold earth. He hadn’t transported himself very far, maybe a mile or two; just enough to get away from the Kamishiros. His chest pulsed in agony as he bent over and vomited blood against a tree. His body quivered with the effort of staying on his knees, and he looked down at his trembling hands.

He didn’t know what he had done to Ryoga Kamishiro. He didn’t know if he had absorbed power or transferred it; he didn’t know what had even caused him to do… whatever it was he did.

His sword lay nearby. He was terrified of it. It was as if it acted of its own free will.

If that were the case, he couldn’t control even his own soul.

He pulled down his shirt and forced himself to look at the veins over his heart; they were pulsing out of rhythm with his heartbeat. 

"What’s happening to me?" he whispered.

How could he save Haruto with a body like this?


	16. Marionettes

It had been two weeks, Yuma realized when he woke one afternoon from a restless sleep. Two weeks since he had lost his kingdom. Since Astral lost his parents. Since the Barians nearly completed their stranglehold over the entire continent. Since he bid his commander farewell for what he knew might have been the last time.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, looking over at his companions. Astral leaned against a cottonwood by the creek, fingering his pendant, eyes gazing blankly at the forest ahead of him. Kotori slept nearby, hand gripping her staff with such force that her knuckles had turned white. Cathy sat next to the creek, head tilted as she muttered to herself.

Astral glanced up as Yuma stood, but looked back down almost immediately. _Strange_ , Yuma thought, but it had been a long journey and Astral wasn’t used to this kind of demanding physicality or sleeping on the ground. He left Astral to his solemn pendant-twirling and approached Cathy, just out of Astral’s earshot.

“Cathy, do you know how far we have left to go until we reach the city?”

She looked up from the stream, startled; a fish that had been idling near her darted off. He wondered if she had been talking to it.

Witchcraft, some would consider it, but he was past caring at this point.

She looked up at the sky and frowned. “About when the sun gets… there.” She pointed to a point just east of where the sun blazed.

_Almost a day, then._

They had made good time, despite everything. Cathy’s navigational skills had come in handy; she had found every route around towns and villages that took them only a couple of days out of their way.

But something else was bothering Yuma; a feeling in the back of his mind, a prickle that told him that something wasn’t quite… right.

“Are we being followed?” he asked quietly.

Cathy’s slumped shoulders and the way she bit her lip told him he was right. “It’s very strange,” she murmured. “There are two of them back at the painted rocks. But there’s another few people back at the waterfall.”

He mentally calculated this. A mile and half or so for the first pair, and three for the second group. “We need to get moving. Now. Cathy, let me know when they get closer. We may have to fight.”

“Are they bad?”

He didn’t know. “I hope not.”

—-

Yuma gripped Kotori’s arm as they moved, quicker than before. She had woken up dizzy; he could only assume it was lack of proper nutrition and sleep that were wearing her down. Cathy kept her eyes on the sky above the trees, and would occasionally mutter to herself and change directions, heading just a little more due south, or a little more to the east. Yuma trusted that she knew where she was going; after all, she had seemed familiar enough with the concept of  _the huge village on the river_. Astral lagged along several yards behind, and Yuma paused occasionally to give him time to catch up.

In the end, no matter how quickly they moved, their pursuers moved even quicker.

“Yuma, I think we’re too late.” Cathy stopped abruptly and pointed at the sky, where a falcon soared. It shrieked, and a voice from the trees behind them made his heart stop.

“Finally found you, it seems, Lord Astral.”

Kotori moved her hands to Yuma’s shoulder and she let out a quiet gasp; Astral stumbled backward as he moved closer to Yuma as well. Yuma held his sword in front of him as the two figures stepped closer, pulling down their hoods.

The taller of the two had a mess of dark red and blond hair framing what Yuma supposed was a handsome face, though it was marred by a twisted grin. His companion brushed his slightly curly pink hair out of his green eyes. Both wore clothes that were entirely too fancy for traipsing through the woods, and the smaller of the two wore a sword strapped to his back. Yuma had the unpleasant feeling he knew exactly how to use it, too.

“Thomas Arclight,” the first announced, holding out his hand in greeting. “This is my brother Mihael.”

Yuma lowered his sword slightly.  _Arclight_? He didn’t dare to hope that this meant the Arclights were willing to fight the Barians if they had sought Astral out.

Far more likely, they were here on the Barians’ errand.

“How did you find us?” Yuma tried to keep his voice authoritative.

“Oh?” Thomas squinted at Yuma with one eye. “Ah, yes, I remember seeing you on Lord Vector’s wanted list. Hmm… your name eludes me.”

“How did you find us?” Yuma repeated, louder this time. He raised his sword.

“Hey, hey, no need for that. I’m unarmed, see?” Thomas held out his hands.

“Answer my question.”

Thomas placed his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes. “Geez, you’re being _pushy_. Maybe you should try being less obvious, summoning on hillsides overlooking entire villages with a great view of you, eh Lord Astral?”

Yuma glanced sideways. Astral’s eyes widened. “How did you hear about it in Arclight…?”

“We’re not the only ones,” Mihael spoke up. His voice lacked the cockiness his brother had, but it still commanded respect. “Lord Heartland relayed it to Lord Durbe.”

“And Durbe told  _you_?” Astral said coolly. “I find that difficult to believe.”

A strange look settled over Mihael’s face; embarrassment, or maybe shame. So he wasn’t there on the Barians’ orders after all.

But then, Yuma realized with a jolt, Heartland knew Astral was alive now.

Without even speaking to him, they had accomplished even a small part of their mission.

“Why are you here?” Kotori demanded, finally releasing Yuma’s shoulder.

Thomas grinned. “Everyone wants the last of the Astral family’s power. I’m sure you’ve heard of what happened to our father?”

Yuma stepped in front of Astral. “I will die before I allow you to touch him.”

Mihael unsheathed the sword from his back. “We have no need for anyone but Prince Astral.”

He was fast; unbelievably so. His sword was also slightly heavier than Yuma’s, which gave Yuma enough time to deflect the strike, though it knocked him slightly off-balance. He recovered quickly and danced back into an offensive position. Mihael adopted a two-handed posture that Yuma recognized instantly as the preparation for a spinning attack, and mirrored it.

Yuma saw Astral lift his hand and opened his mouth to call out to him to stop-

“No!”

Mihael abandoned his posture and flung out a hand. The small pink gemstone on his wrist flashed with a tangible energy, and Astral whined as though punched in the stomach. He doubled over, body shaking violently. Yuma nearly dropped his sword and turned to Astral, but Kotori shoved him back toward Mihael. He barely registered her voice –  _I’ve got it, just protect him_  – and his arm instinctively moved to deflect Mihael’s attack.

He was a skilled swordsman, and had obviously studied with a master of the art, but so had Yuma.

There had been few in the history of the Astral Guard more skilled with a sword than his father.

Mihael was on the defensive; Yuma had nothing but a blind rage, a need to protect Astral. He wouldn’t let anyone have him. He needed to fulfill his mission. Then, with a diving feint, he caught Mihael off balance and knocked him to the ground.

He kicked Mihael’s sword away and placed his own sword point above Mihael’s throat.

All it would take was a small push.

Time froze, and a different face replaced Mihael’s. A mouthless face, with wide, terrified red eyes. Those eyes hadn’t been terrified when they had shot an arrow in the Captain-Commander’s side. His breath was heavy, his veins pumping with adrenaline. He felt the sword rip through the monster’s body-

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four.

Five.

He lost track.

His hand shook. Tears spilled onto his cheeks as he dropped the sword next to the terrified face of Mihael Arclight, the youngest son of the Barian Empire’s first conquered kingdom.

_I can’t kill._

_I can’t do it again._

Mihael slowly moved backward. Yuma let him. His sword was lying on the ground next to him, useless.

Thomas’s laugh filled the air. “Pitiful! You can’t even do what needs to be done to save your prince. Do you really love him enough to kill for him?”

Yuma couldn’t answer. He glanced to the side, at Kotori and Astral, who were both kneeling on the ground, Astral wincing at Yuma’s gaze. Kotori’s face was white, and tears streaked her own face. A little behind them, Cathy stood, petrified, as she gazed at Yuma with terror evident in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely.

“As you should be!” Thomas held out a hand and clenched it, and as a flash of purple emanated from his wristband, Yuma felt his arm move on its own, reaching down for his discarded sword.

“What-”

“I wonder, if you won’t do it yourself, how will it feel when I make you do it? How will it feel to be my little puppet?”

Yuma could do nothing as his sword arm lifted itself. He could do nothing as his legs moved on their own.

All he could do was scream in agony as Thomas forced him to attack his friends.

—-

Vector stretched out on the settee and propped his feet on a pillow. What a dull kingdom. All Heartland wanted to talk about was entertainment and trade rights – as if Vector  _cared_ about trade rights – and by the end of the day had hardly gotten anywhere with taking over this kingdom.

It might be easier on his sanity to just  _invade_  the place.

There was a knock on the door. Vector contemplated telling the maid to go away – it  _was_ only midmorning – but he should at least make the  _effort_ to appear polite.

“What?”

“Lord Vector, we have some… guests for you.”

_Guests_? “Show them in.”

The door opened and four cloaked Barians, each holding an unconscious human in their arms, filed through. Vector bolted upright, eyes widening in surprise as each human was dumped at his feet.

He knew two of them painfully well.

Two more humans followed closely behind, and Vector couldn’t fail to recognize them.

“Ah… Thomas and Mihael. What a surprise.” It certainly was that.

“Lord Vector.” Thomas bowed deeply. “We found Prince Astral and his comrades. We were nearest Heartland City and thought to bring them by to summon one of the other lords to collect when we heard you were here.”

“How fortunate,” Vector murmured, gripping Yuma Tsukumo’s chin. “How did you overpower them? Prince Astral can summon. Did he not summon?”

The two exchanged a hesitant look. Vector smiled to himself. If they thought he was unaware that they had their souls transplanted, they were wrong. Who did they think gave Byron the idea to do it to them in the first place?

Weakening Durbe and Mizael  _and_ gaining control over the Arclights in one swoop had been one of his cleverer ideas of late.

“No, we caught them by surprise,” Mihael said smoothly. A cute lie, that.

“I see. Where are their weapons?”

"Only he had one. I… went ahead and took it. It’s a wonderful blade. Masterfully forged. If that’s all right."

"I see nothing wrong with that. Well, I’m sure your father will be proud to know that his sons acquired the last of the Astral family. It will help us tremendously in helping to reverse the… unfortunate side effects of General Mizael’s coercion.”

“Will you really use it to help our father?” Mihael sounded hopeful.

“Of course,” Vector lied, eyes crinkling in a reassuring smile. “I’ll take them back to Astral and have Lord Durbe collect them when he’s finished with his business in Baria.”

—-

Mizael’s portal opened into the courtyard at the Barian Palace, Mizael stepping through first; Durbe was still exhausted, and he stumbled through the portal after his general, but shook off any attempts Mizael made to steady him.

He had been, predictably, furious about the hearing. Mizael had put off waking Durbe for an entire day, but with no sign of Kaito or the Arclights, and Polara and Byron hounding him to see Durbe, he gave in.

_You should have woken me well before now_ , he said scathingly before sending Alit to find the brothers. He tried to hide it, but Mizael could see the concern in his eyes when he admitted there was nothing to be done about Kaito. It had been three days by now. Kaito would be dead in another four at most, probably fewer, without immediate and intensive Healing. Mizael couldn’t spare too much worry about the lord. He had brought it on himself, after all, and he could hardly say he liked the human.

They stopped at the bottom of the stairwell and Durbe finally turned to him and spoke. “Give short answers. One word, if possible. Refer to them as  _my lord_ and  _my lady_ , and watch your tone. I am not here to hold your hand through it. I am not even allowed to speak on your behalf unless asked. Do you understand?”

Mizael muttered his acquiescence and turned to ascend the stairs, but Durbe grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him into the wall. Mizael flinched; not only had Durbe never resorted to physicality to make his point known, but he had grabbed Mizael’s bad shoulder. The Healing that Durbe had forced him to undergo had helped; but his weeklong resistance to getting it Healed in the first place had left permanent damage.

“Durbe,” he breathed, but Durbe shook his head. His eyes were cold grey orbs, and held none of their usual approbation for his general.

“You will refer to me by my title. I am  _Lord_  Durbe.”

Not once, in the ten years since Durbe became a lord, had he demanded to be called by his title. This was so unlike him; what was happening…?

Durbe’s eyes turned toward the top of the spiral staircase. “There are six lords in there who have been waiting a long time to take you from me.” His voice took on a sense of urgency. “I swore responsibility for you. Mizael the general is of great help and importance to me. Mizael the prisoner…” He seemed to finally realize that his hand was tightening into Mizael’s shoulder and released him. “Keep civil, keep respectful, and I will do everything in my power to keep you from being demoted.”

The look in his eyes could only be described as desperate. “I understand,” Mizael said softly. Durbe nodded and led the way up the staircase.

The other lords were already assembled when Durbe pushed open the door – all except one.

“Vector is missing again?” Durbe demanded, striding to his seat. Mizael stopped in the middle of the room with the lords surrounding him to the sides. “This is the third time in a row.”

“Relax.” Alasco yawned. “He’s negotiating with Heartland.”

_Negotiating_. Mizael didn’t like the sound of Vector  _negotiating_  with anyone. He had grown to despise the word lately. Still, he was relieved Vector wasn’t here. He certainly wouldn’t be able to keep his tone civil around Vector.

“And I was again uninformed? Does the Council regard my opinion on diplomacy so poorly?” Durbe’s voice held more than a hint of contempt. Mizael prayed he would control his temper; the last thing he needed was for Durbe to get kicked out during this meeting.

“We can discuss Vector with you later, if you like,” Pherka said, leaning her head on a propped fist. “Let’s get this over with.” Durbe settled back and crossed his arms.

“On your knees, General,” Ilya ordered, waving a ring-studded hand at him.

His hands clenched instinctively. With the smallest flick of his eyes toward Durbe, who glanced away and shook his head a fraction of an inch to each side, he took a deep breath and knelt.

“Good boy,” Alasco said in a voice Mizael had heard him use toward his horses. Mizael closed his eyes and thanked his God that he wasn’t in his human form, where he would surely be grinding his teeth to keep from retorting. “It seems Durbe has trained you for this hearing.”

It made Mizael’s blood boil, that he was being treated like an  _animal_.

Polara crossed her legs and placed a finger to her chin. “General Mizael, your behavior of late has been reprehensible. You are constantly speaking to your betters as though equal to them, you openly disobey orders, and you had the _audacity_  to refuse to let a _king_  pass.” She paused, and he remained silent. As long as there was no question, he would give no response. When he remained silent, she sighed and waved a hand. “Explain yourself.”

He couldn’t see how to reply to this with anything short of admitting that he and Durbe were plotting behind their backs. He forced his gaze forward, at Polara, and decided on a version of the truth. As much as it galled him to have to divulge to these tyrants anything about his past… he had no choice.

“When I was a youth,” he began in as polite a tone as he could muster, “my parents disowned me. My mother believed that I was a disappointment. My father believed me to be an… abnormality. Both deeply regretted giving up portions of their souls, their lives, to create me.” The lords were silent. In his peripheral, he saw Durbe close his eyes. “I was ostracized. Others treated me as though I were scum. No one trusted me, no one cared for me, and all looked down on me, because without parents, I was less than them.” He looked down at his hands, clenched on his sarong. He hadn’t noticed. “I have carried the distrust of authority, of class differences, ever since. I cannot bring myself to take a tone of respect with those who do not issue it to me in return.”

Koche found his voice first. “A very sad tale, General. But you do not even treat Durbe with respect. Are you saying he does not treat you with respect?”

“Dur-  _Lord_ Durbe treats me with a great deal of respect. More than I deserve, I am sure. And I believe you are confusing  _familiarity_ with a lack of respect. I treat Durbe…  _Lord_ Durbe the same as I would treat anyone who would call me a friend.”

Alasco barked out a laugh. “Friend? General, he is a  _Lord_. He is one of the highest sources of authority on this continent. You are not  _friends_. Need I remind you that the only reason you are where you are today and not rotting in a cell for your impudence is because Durbe intervened and promised to keep you under check. A task at which, I have said for many years, he has failed  _spectacularly_. Why should we not take you away and cast you in a dungeon?”

“If I may,” Durbe ventured, looking at Polara. She exchanged a glance with Koche, who shrugged, and nodded. “Thank you. General Mizael’s seeming lack of deference has allowed me to gain unique views into the plights of my kingdom.  _Because_  he is blunt – or as you say, impudent – I can count on him to tell me when my ideas are foolish. Because of him, I have succeeded in helping you bring this continent almost completely under check. I owe General Mizael my life, my success, and my thanks.”

Ilya shifted in her seat. “General, I wonder, could you tell us what exactly you and Durbe are doing in Arclight and Tenjo?”

Mizael couldn’t stop his eyes from darting to Durbe, and Polara’s sharp voice cut through Durbe’s noise of indignity. “Don’t look at him, Mizael, look at me. Look at me and answer.”

“Polara-”

“Quiet, Durbe.”

“But I have given the Council my full report on-”

“I said to be quiet.”

Durbe fell silent and Mizael turned back to Polara, adrenaline coursing through his veins. How much did they already know? He didn’t want to give away any of Durbe’s plans, and he certainly didn’t want them to know how little control Durbe had over the royal families…

“We… have talked with Lord Faker about…” He could practically hear Durbe’s voice,  _don’t tell them about Haruto or Kaito or the Arclights_ , and he searched his mind in a blind panic for an excuse that might appease them “Disallowing the policy on protective tariffs on Arclight goods to continue. My lady.”

It was partly true; that issue did come up in discussion with King Byron, if only in passing. Pherka raised an eyebrow. “ _Tariffs_? Is that what you’ve been doing for two weeks?” She sounded dubious, with good reason.

“Many in Tenjo are wary about trading with Arclight.” Mizael was surprised how easily this lie was coming to him. “Trade that benefits the invaders of a formerly peaceful kingdom makes many merchants who fear war and bloodshed wary of allowing free trade to continue unabated, especially when-”

“That’s quite enough of that,” Ilya muttered. “We get it.”

Polara’s eyes bored into him. He wondered if she suspected he was lying. She was the leader of the Lords for a reason. “Very well. On a different topic, King Byron is still wondering where his sons are, as well as why Durbe was incapacitated for three days.”

_That makes two of us_. “I have sent out a… a few scouting parties to explore the area around the palace. I’m sure they couldn’t have gotten too far in just a few days.” They could be a hundred miles away in any direction if they figured out the portals, but the lords didn’t know about that incident yet. “As for Dur- Lord Durbe, you should ask  _him_  why he doesn’t take care of his body and lets himself be driven to exhaustion.”

“It’s not my-”

A knock at the door cut off Durbe’s retort.

Polara tapped the side of her chair rapidly. “This had better be good.”

The door opened tentatively, revealing a messenger. He glanced at the nearly full Council, then at Mizael kneeling on the floor in front of them, and realized immediately that he had interrupted something important.

“M… My lords and ladies… Lord Vector wished me to give this to Lord Durbe…” He clenched a sealed scroll between his hands.

Mizael chanced a glance at Durbe. A look of suspicion crossed Durbe’s face as he stood and took the roll. His message delivered, the messenger scurried away, closing the door hastily behind him. With his back turned to the other lords, it was impossible to gauge his expression, but he spent a solid two minutes reading the scroll before Koche got annoyed. “Well? What does Vector want?”

Durbe turned and issued a curt bow. “He wants to talk to me about something. He says it will interest me, but won’t say what.”

He caught Mizael’s gaze and held it until Polara let out a frustrated sigh. “Can it wait?”

“He says it’s important and that I should visit him in Astral with all due haste.”

_Astral_?

“I thought you said he was in Heartland.” Ilya narrowed her eyes at Alasco.

“That’s where he’s supposed to be,” he muttered. “Maybe he’s finished talking with Heartland already.”

“If I may take my leave, I would appreciate General Mizael’s help,” Durbe cut in. “I believe he has proven himself to be capable of civility and he answered your questions to the best of his ability.”

“Unless he’s hiding something from us, which I get the distinct impression he _is_ ,” Alasco said.

A heavy silence permeated the room as Alasco let these words sink in. Durbe rested his hand on Mizael’s good shoulder. “If you accuse Mizael of keeping secrets, you accuse me of the same. Am I to assume that is the case, Alasco?”

“I don’t know, Durbe. Is it?”

Durbe’s nails clawed into Mizael’s shoulder. “Polara, may we?”

“I have no objections,” Polara said. “I know Alasco does, but what of the rest of you…?” One by one, the others shook their heads, though Pherka did so almost begrudgingly. “Very well, you are dismissed. But General Mizael, this is your  _last_  warning. You have gotten away with too much for too long, and your only saving grace is that Durbe insists on vouching for you… for whatever reason only the two of you seem to know.”

Not for the first time, Mizael wondered how much the other lords knew.

He let Durbe pull him to his feet; his legs were cramped from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. As they closed the door behind them, Durbe whispered into his ear.

_“Thank you.”_

—-

Durbe pushed open the door to the throne room and strode in, cloak swishing around his ankles. He stopped abruptly as he spotted the four half-unconscious humans lying at the base of the dais, arms tied tightly behind their backs.

“Well, Durbe, is this satisfactory for your plans?” Vector’s voice rang out from the throne.

Cautiously, Durbe approached the figures and studied each of them in turn. He reached the last figure – an oddly dressed young woman with long silver hair - and narrowed his eyes. He tilted her head with his foot and frowned. “Who’s this one?”

Vector shrugged. “She was found with them.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Durbe, you look positively exhausted. You’re going to work yourself into a coma, you know.”

Durbe’s fingers twitched convulsively. He decided to ignore this. “Where were they found?”

“The two younger Arclight brothers found them in the Heartland Kingdom’s borders. They brought them to me while I was conversing with Lord Heartland.”

Durbe cocked an eyebrow. “Heartland? Why were they there?”

“It’s  _your_  job to find out, Durbe. You’re the mastermind, aren’t you?”

Durbe paused, confused for a moment before he realized he had meant to ask why the  _Arclights_  had been in Heartland instead of in their own kingdom where he had told them to be, but Vector took his question to mean the four unconscious humans on the floor in front of him. That was just fine. The less Vector realized how much Durbe had been losing control of the Arclights, the better.

He was suddenly glad that Vector hadn’t been at the meeting, because he would surely have questioned how the Arclights had travelled from their kingdom all the way to Heartland City in three days.

With a sigh, Durbe pulled a knife from the belt around his waist and walked back to the first figure. He cupped the thin, pale face with a curious tilt of his head before driving the knife into the figure’s bony thigh.

It elicited an immediate response, a bloodcurdling shriek of agony, as the former prince of the Astral Kingdom was snapped out of semi-consciousness by the Baria Crystal’s energy coursing through his veins like a powerful electric current. The frail prince shuddered and slumped unmoving on the cold marble floor. Vector merely looked on from his throne, bored. He obviously found no cruel irony in the fact that the prince now lay beaten and bound at the feet of his parents’ murderer as the usurper sat in the chair that was his birthright.

“Has anyone had any leads on the Dragoon twins?” Durbe said conversationally as he stood, wiping Astral’s blood absentmindedly on his robes as the other three figures stirred.

Vector stroked his chin thoughtfully with a clawed finger. “My, my, aren’t you fixated on them. No. Nobody has seen them since Gilag failed to kill them.”

“Well, I would be thrilled with the whole set.” He looked down at Astral, who lay whimpering on the ground, eyes glazed as blood flowed freely from his wound. Yes, the Kamishiro twins would be an excellent addition to his studies. There was another reason he wanted them in his possession but Vector wasn’t to know that. The more he could keep from Vector, the more leverage he would have later. “But this is a good start.”


	17. Secrets

The west-facing balconies of Baria Palace had always been Polara’s favorite; though the eastern balconies faced the lake, and many of the other lords preferred them over the prominent view of the low desert, she loved the power that coursed through her when she thought of bringing those lands in the distance to their knees.

And they had.

But there was something bothering her; it had all seemed too simple. She had been a lord for nearly twenty-nine years before they had destroyed the Dragoons. Thirty-eight before they had conquered Arclight, and thirty-nine before destroying the Astral royal family and bringing Tenjo to their command. That left Heartland, and though Lord Heartland danced around the issue, Vector was certain that he would eventually acquiesce.

All these events had one thing in common, and she wanted to know how Durbe managed to bring the pieces of the puzzle together so seamlessly.

“Good morning, Polara.”

She turned from her distant view of the lands beyond the Sargasso Waste and met Alasco’s gaze. “You got my letter, then.”

“Of course. What is it you wished to speak of in private?”

“I’ve felt as though I’m being led along by certain people, and that I’m not being told the entire truth.”

Alasco raised an eyebrow. “I could have told you that.” When she narrowed her eyes at him, he shrugged and leaned on the balcony. “Look, I’ve been pushing for years to get Mizael fired and imprisoned for his insubordination, but nobody seems to want to upset Durbe by doing so. We’ve let them both get away with practically everything but murder and despite the fact that Mizael is very obviously openly defiant, we let him walk with nothing more than a frown. They’re up to something, Polara. They know they can get away with it, and they do.”

She was silent for a moment, and turned her gaze back out toward the desert. “There are some things that aren’t adding up, and other things that are explaining Durbe’s actions and successes.” It was difficult to accuse Durbe of anything; she rather liked him. He was generally polite, a brilliant strategist, and a crafty diplomat. But if the information she had was any indication of his true motives…

 Alasco drummed his fingers on the railing. He stared unblinkingly ahead. “I don’t mean to sound like a palace gossip-”

“If you’re worried about sounding like a maid, I’d be very careful what comes out of your mouth next, Alasco. So to speak.”

“Naturally.” He furrowed his eyes. “I wonder if there are multiple reasons Durbe has such influence with Mizael. They’ve been together for something like thirty years, starting with their time as regulars in the army. They’re _always_  together-”

“I think I know where you’re going with this and I would like you to stop there.” Polara couldn’t say with complete honesty that she didn’t notice the same things, but conjecture about a fellow lord, especially over something as serious a crime as this, was not something she wanted voiced. “Until you can find proof – unequivocal proof, mind you – of your… suspicions, I don’t want to hear another word of it.”

Alasco’s shoulders drooped and he sighed quietly. “Very well. But Polara, if I may have Durbe watched?”

“Under what pretenses?”

“I want to ensure that nothing unbecoming is taking place.”

She sighed and looked back out over the Waste. “I have suspicions of my own, but of a different nature. This is from Mihael and Thomas Arclight.” She pulled a note out of an inner pocket and handed it to Alasco. He took it, looking annoyed that she had ignored his request, and glanced at it, eyes widening as he did so.

“And Vector gave them to  _Durbe_?”

It wasn’t exactly something she would ever have envisioned Vector doing either. Nor did she believe Vector had any right to have turned them over to another lord instead of deliberating with the Council.

“He’s overstepped his boundaries,” Alasco muttered. “We should take a vote and-”

“I think we should let it play out,” Polara cut in.

Alasco’s eyes narrowed almost to slits. “You’re  _allowing_  Durbe to perform experiments on them?”

“What better way to see what Durbe’s true motives are?” Polara turned to the balcony door and strode back into the palace. Alasco paused for a moment before following. “Does it not bother you that the Arclights went missing and turned up in Heartland in only a couple of days? That’s a two week trip on foot and none of the horses were unaccounted for in that time. Further, the Barians who found the Arclights in Heartland say they were there on Mizael’s orders. And now Lord Kaito has been missing a week, when I heard rumors that he was almost dead for some reason in the Arclight infirmary, and that Alit and Gilag – both openly loyal to Durbe – had been to see him before he vanished. Add to all that Durbe’s two day bed rest…”

Her unfinished sentence hung in the air as Alasco processed this. “Surely he wouldn’t risk that.”

“I’m only gathering the information I have. In the meantime, I think keeping an eye on Durbe’s generals would do more good than to watch Durbe.”

“Why?”

Polara rolled her eyes. “Alasco, if you found out that I’d set someone to watch you, how would you feel? Like you said, Mizael is always with Durbe, or always doing Durbe’s will, so it’s the next best thing. Durbe can’t complain that we’re watching Mizael, not after the meeting. He should count himself fortunate that we didn’t press for a punishment this time. And we’ve caught him in a lie, since he told me and King Byron that he had no idea where the Arclights were when it is clear he actually did.”

By his slow nod, she knew he understood. “Very well. I believe Alit and Gilag were sent probably as a cover up to ‘find the Arclights,’ so we should send someone out to retrieve them.”

“Fine. Please return them to Baria. I have questions for them about Lord Kaito.”

Alasco gave her a short bow and left the room. Polara sat in her armchair and tapped her chin with a pointed finger. After all he had done for the Barian Empire, it really was a shame she couldn’t trust Durbe anymore.

_If you’re going to play this game, at least make a greater effort to cover your tracks, Durbe._

Unless that was part of his game, too.

—-

Two days had passed since Kaito failed to subdue the Kamishiros. His stomach churned, his head pounded, and though he had never been stabbed and therefore had no idea what it felt like, he imagined it was akin to the feeling in his chest, only constant.

He didn’t understand what his new powers did, and at one point as he stumbled through the woods like a wounded bear, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a small pool. He screamed and clutched his face; his left eye had turned red, and a bizarre blue marking surrounded it.

Through his panic he wondered if this was a curse to show the world his sins.

It got progressively worse by the hour, and as his body became painfully sluggish he wondered if he should give up and return home.

 _Haruto shouldn’t see you like this_.

He slumped against a tree and drew a painful breath. What had Chris warned him?

_Don’t use these powers for anything unless it is completely necessary._

“It is necessary,” he whispered to himself. “I’m doing this for Haruto; I’m not doing this for me…”

He needed to find the Kamishiros. He needed to figure out what he had done to Ryoga, because if he had absorbed some of his powers, he needed to be able to replicate it; if he had inadvertently passed some of his own strength on to the Dragoon, he needed to know so he could prevent it from happening again. But he had no idea where he was, no idea where they were, and he had been moving so slowly and at times so erratically that they could be miles away from him in any direction.

He was almost glad when he felt his legs give out from under him, almost glad when his pain and exhaustion gave way to a deep rest.

—-

He was dead.

At least, that’s what he thought when his eyes opened blearily and he saw a swirling red mass above him. It was Hell; having his soul torn from him, having his body systematically and agonizingly shut itself down, had killed him. He wondered when he was going to be swarmed with desperate souls, dragging him down with them, drowning him in a lake of acid, dragging their claws over him, ripping into his frail human flesh over and over and over and _over_ , and when it was all over – would it ever be? – his body would transform into that body of hardened minerals, every muscle and vein turning to crystal, his mouth sealing itself as he gasped for air, as he became  _one of them_.

He had never felt so afraid, so helpless, and so remorseful of anything in his entire existence. Not only had he damned himself, but he had failed Haruto, failed his kingdom, and accomplished absolutely nothing.

But nothing happened. No wails of the tormented, no laughter of the tormentors filled the air. It was silent.

He lifted a hand to his chest and slid it down his shirt. He felt the pulsating veins in his chest, but they seemed-

He rolled to his side and blinked furiously. His hand was wet with blood. And there was a knife at his throat.

Only then did he realize the sky above was not Hell but the sunset, and he was very much alive.

“Don’t move,” a woman’s voice commanded.

He could barely muster the energy to move to begin with, but he didn’t speak as a pair of large, rough hands grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet. He swayed against the dizziness, wondering what fresh misfortune he had stumbled into this time.

The knife came away from his throat and he got his first look at his captors. The woman was slender and smaller than Kaito, but the man had probably half a foot and twice the body mass on Kaito. Both wore nearly identical, tight black suits under dark purple coats; the woman sported a magenta ascot, the man, a red one. The woman held the knife, and Kaito saw a couple of small pouches tied at her belt. The man crossed his arms and glared down at him.

“A little far from Baria, aren’t you?”

Kaito clenched his fist, remembering too late that it was covered in his own blood. He pulled his eyes from the man and glanced down at his chest; his white coat was stained red. His lips trembled. Why was he bleeding?

But he realized that the sharp stabs of pain in his chest had dulled to a throb. What had happened…? “Calling me a Barian is the greatest insult you could offer me.” He contemplated pulling out his sword and taking care of them – he had brought two Dragoons to submission, after all – but as his fingers reached casually for it, he realized that it was gone.

“Looking for this?” the man held it up, and as his fingers touched the dragon, Kaito felt a shock run through his body.

“Put that down.” His voice was harsh.

The man ignored him and held it up. The dying sun’s reflection turned the hilt a dazzling red-gold. “What a pretty sword. You must be high on the Barian food chain to get this. Which lord do you report to?”

Kaito barely took a step forward before the woman’s knife was at his throat again. He ground his teeth, mouth twisting in fury. “How dare-”

The man rolled his eyes and tossed the sword down. “Yeah, yeah.  _How dare you_ , I get it. By the way, you’re welcome for saving your filthy demon life.”

“What the hell are-”

The woman’s knife travelled down from his throat to his chest. “You had a disgusting blood clot. We bled you.”

“You  _what-_ ” He had heard of people being bled, supposedly to get rid of infection, only to die from blood loss. His hand reached instinctively for his chest. It came away wet. “You cut open my chest?” Anger replaced fear. “You could have killed me! I might bleed to death regardless!”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Well, yeah, could have killed a  _human_. You can just change back to your Barian form and shifty on back to Baria and heal yourself.”

“It doesn’t work like-” Too late, Kaito caught his slip and flinched.

“Aha!” The man prodded Kaito’s shoulder. “You just admitted to it.”

Kaito slapped his hand away, ignoring the woman’s raised knife, and made a lunge for his sword. “I – am –  _not_  – a goddamn –  _Barian_!”

His fingers grazed the hilt and the familiar warmth spread through his fingers for a split second before the man grabbed his wrists and yanked him backward. He grunted as the pain in his chest intensified and hunched over, catching the man off balance. Kaito fell to his knees and clenched his chest.

 _Damn it, why is this happening_ again _-?_

He placed a bloodied hand on his face and squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden, splitting headache.

A small hand grabbed him by the back of the collar as another shoved something in his mouth. He gagged at what tasted like a sour herb and tried to spit it out.

“Don’t spit it out, you ungrateful brat,  _swallow_ it!”

He forced it down and almost instantly felt the pain in his head cease. He looked down at his chest and saw the blood flow stop. He took a few shuddering breaths and looked up at the pair standing over him. He figured he should probably thank the woman for the herb, but seeing as it was her fault his chest had been bleeding out to begin with, his gratefulness was limited. “Are you a Healer?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Do I  _look_  like a Healer?”

Kaito coughed up a few flecks of blood and laughed humorlessly. “No, I don’t suppose you do. You look more like assassins. What are you doing in Arclight?”

The man’s lips thinned. “I could ask the same of you. You look like you’ve spent your whole life pampered in luxury. What are you doing with the Devil’s Eye and a cursed heart wandering around the middle of the forest?”

 _The Devil’s Eye._ Some religious groups in Heartland called the Barians’ eye markings the Devil’s Eye, in keeping with the belief that the Barians were spawned from Hell.  _So he still thinks I’m Hellspawn_. “I’m looking for a couple of people.”

The woman lifted an eyebrow at her companion, who shrugged at her. “A couple of people,” she repeated.

He didn’t know how much he could trust these two people. He didn’t even know their names, or what their purpose for being here was. But if they were going to kill him for believing him a Barian, they surely couldn’t be bad people… right? “Twins. A man about my height, perhaps slightly taller. A woman, a few inches shorter. They’re wearing black armor. Have you seen them?”

The man frowned and glanced at the rapidly darkening sky. “No. What do you want from them?”

“They have something I need.”

They exchanged another glance and the woman scowled before putting her knife in her belt. “I’m Droite. This is Gauche. We’re here… to trade at the Arena.”

Kaito didn’t believe for a second that they were there for trade, at least not legally. Heartland had plenty of trade opportunities that they wouldn’t have had to come all this way into Barian territory for, and they were definitely from Heartland. Their names and Gauche’s religious slip-up proved that to him. They were probably interested in the black market at the Arena.

But now he had a choice to make. He could return to Tenjo or Arclight and receive proper care for his…  _condition_ , whatever it was, or he could continue his hunt for the Dragoons and pray that he figured out how to extract their powers without killing himself in the process.

He’d come this far, hadn’t he?

“I’m… Kaito. I would like to accompany you to the Arena, if that’s agreeable. Perhaps I will find my… friends there.”

Gauche hesitated for a long moment before handing Kaito’s sword to him. “We’re about a day’s walk away. Don’t slow us down, and don’t think about attacking us. If you’re not Barian, you’ve at least got something to do with them, and we won’t hesitate to kill you next time.”

—-

For what felt like weeks, Akari wondered whether the Barians had forgotten about her and her grandmother. The ones who came by their cell with a bare minimum of food never spoke, and with the exception of their first few days of captivity, none of the lords came to see them. Haru was much worse for the wear. The cell was small and cold, and the mats on the cold stone floor were thin and awarded little comfort when time came to sleep. Akari was still a young woman and could stick it out; Haru was an elderly woman with tired muscles and sore joints, and these conditions exacerbated her problems.

When she heard footsteps, she assumed it was time for breakfast – or dinner, perhaps; with no natural light to tell her the time of day, she just couldn’t tell anymore – but when five figures stopped in front of the cell, her heart stopped.

It had been over two years since she had seen her brother, and when the Barians invaded, they told her he was at the Palace during the massacre. She had thought him dead. The Barians had told her he was.

His unfocused, deadened eyes drifted to the side and his face was covered in scrapes and discolorations. He slumped against the Barian holding him as though his legs couldn’t support him any longer. He looked so helpless, so dejected, that she felt tears fill her eyes at the sight of him. Behind him, a second Barian held a hooded figure. She couldn’t tell who it was, but it didn’t really matter.

She climbed to her feet, legs shaking, and approached the cell door. The lead Barian stepped back instinctively. “Yuma.”

Haru sat up and looked to the cell door before letting out a choked sob at the sight of her beaten and broken grandson being held up by a Barian.

“He won’t be speaking to you,” the lead Barian said tersely. “I just wanted you to be ready with your answers when we come back to ask you what you know of the Astral World.”

“We don’t know anything!” Akari whimpered, clutching the bars. “Please, let me talk to my brother-”

“You’re fortunate that we’ve been preoccupied elsewhere for two weeks,” the Barian cut in. “It may interest you to know that we now control every kingdom on this continent. This may help you realize that it’s not worth keeping your father’s secrets any longer.”

“He never told us-” Haru began, but at the sight of Yuma’s lips moving, she fell silent.

“…failed you…” he mumbled. “Hurt you… Please… forgive… for hurt…” Tears spilled from his eyes and the lead Barian jerked his head the opposite way.

“Take him to Durbe.”

“Yes sir.”

Akari pressed herself to the bars and reached her thin arm through the bars, where she caught desperately to the Barian’s sleeve. He ripped himself free and narrowed his eyes as though touched by something diseased. “Please let me talk to Yuma, I haven’t… we haven’t spoken in years.”  _I want to tell him I’m sorry for what I did to him._

He brushed his robes and shrugged. “I can’t bring myself to care.” He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Yuma’s only family to slide to the cold ground and weep.


	18. The Enemy of My Enemy

Chris woke earlier than usual, hand reaching instinctively for something he knew was not there, and would never be there again. It had been over a week since Kaito had vanished from the palace; Durbe had been worried about it. Chris overheard him talking to Gilag about how he doubted sincerely that Kaito would last any longer than a week in his condition without Healing and constant supervision.

His hand gripped the pillow next to him as he wondered if Kaito was already dead.

The door opened without preamble, and Chris jolted to a half-sitting position, leaning on his elbow as he pulled his sheets up to his bare chest.

“Good morning, Christopher.”

Chris tensed at the sight of his father, who smiled placidly and stopped at his bedside. He hadn’t spoken to his father since Mihael and Thomas had…

No, he didn’t want to think about that.

He had hardly spoken to his father in the past year, now that he thought on it. It was too difficult to speak to this man for all of his insistence that he wasn’t insane – he was  _enlightened._

“Good morning, Father,” he murmured.

Silence passed between them. Chris hated it; he hated not being able to talk to his father about anything, hated not being asked to sit in on diplomatic affairs or legislation as the heir to throne should be. Until a year ago, the thing he had been most afraid of was that his father would find out about his illegal relationship with Kaito. That fear was nothing compared to the petrifying terror he felt each time he as much as saw his father nowadays.

He shifted under his sheets. “Is… there something you needed from me, Father?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Byron adjusted his monocle and tilted his head at his eldest son. “I heard that Lord Kaito was a guest of ours for a couple of days, but he went missing.”

The familiar dread seized his chest. “M-missing? I assumed he had gone back to Tenjo…”

“No, I’m afraid not. He was very sick, as I understand it, but I can’t think of a reason he would have been here to begin with, or how he got sick, for that matter. Do you know?”

Chris wondered if his father knew something no one should know. His throat constricted as he forced himself to sit upright. “He… needed advice.” It was hard to breathe and he couldn’t help his hands from shaking, nor could he stop the warmth rising in his face. “And he… was sick from the journey, perhaps…”

“And he came all the way here for it? Why not write a letter?” All amicability left his expression. He now looked down at Chris with a scrutinizing stare.

“It was advice on a… situation that he needed someone to talk face-to-face with. I’ve always been his… mentor, so he…” Chris had never stammered through a sentence before, and he knew that if his father had suspected something before, his suspicions were amplified.

Byron leaned over the bed until he and Chris were eye level. “Are you keeping something from me, Christopher?”

It was, perhaps, a last pity gift from the gods that Mihael arrived at the open door at that moment, which spared Chris from having to think up a suitable lie to cover up his stupid mistakes.

“Father, Lord Durbe is finally ready to begin the extraction process in the lower interrogation chamber.” He glanced at his brother and narrowed his eyes in confusion.

“Ah! Excellent, excellent. What an exciting day.” Byron straightened up and strode to the door without another look at Chris. “I am very proud of you, Mihael. You have done well.”

Mihael lowered his eyes to the floor. “I am not worthy of your praise, Father.”

Byron clapped Mihael on the shoulder and swept out of the room without another word, Mihael sparing Chris another brief look before following. Chris waited until their footsteps had vanished before letting out a low breath and slumping back on his bed.

—-

Despite its name, the Arena was not known for sporting events. It was a relatively small, open rectangular fort in the middle of the woods that consisted mainly of dozens of merchant stalls selling all manner of weaponry, medicine, spices, and luxury goods. People came from all over the continent to trade and buy goods; occasionally, some merchants had access to particularly rare, black-market goods. Knowing who to ask for what goods was a trick of the trade and the mark of a regular customer.

In the center of the fort was a marked off rectangular space, much like a court, that people stayed largely clear of. Occasionally, deals went south quickly and turned violent, sometimes deadly.

That was why it was called the Arena.

Hoods pulled low over their faces, the Kamishiro twins moved from table to table, most of which were empty, Ryoga swearing under his breath as he tried to talk down clearly inflated prices on medicines. Neither of them had brought much money; it was heavy, and there was little use for it on their journey. Just as Ryoga wondered if it would be worth challenging the man to a duel for attempting to charge him four times the value of a pint of ointment, Rio nudged him hard in the ribs and glanced toward the entrance gate. Ryoga followed her gaze and caught a glimpse of a burly man and a small woman accompanying a figure dressed in white clothes that pinned him for an obvious outsider.

“Shit,” he muttered. He turned back to the merchant. “Fine, but next time you try to swindle me I swear to the gods I will hang you from the watchtower by your ankles.” The merchant merely shrugged and took the money.

Ryoga reached for Rio’s hand. “If we keep our heads down and look like we belong here, maybe he won’t notice us.” He didn’t believe it himself; there were very few people here this early in the morning and they were bound to be noticed.

“Where did he pick up those friends?” Rio muttered back as they walked hand-in-hand toward a weapons table. “I think now that we know what to expect, we could take him pretty well, but three is a little difficult even for us.”

“Hopefully he doesn’t notice us, then.” Ryoga paused by the table, glancing past the merchant at a slender red lance. The tip looked heavy; perhaps a little unbalanced compared to his trident, but…

He had singlehandedly killed a dozen Barians with his old lance, but with a sword, he couldn’t even lay a scratch on a spoiled prince. He felt helpless without a lance.

“How much for the lance?” he asked the merchant, who raised an eyebrow.

“Sure you can handle a lance?”

He opened his mouth to retort but at another nudge from his sister, he changed his words. “How much?”

The merchant tilted her head and grinned, her brown eyes twinkling under a mop of red hair. “Thirty-two kiffa.”

“Is that all? Would you like my firstborn while you’re at it?”

“Ryoga,” Rio murmured.

“We could buy six horses for thirty-two kiffa,” he hissed. “That thing has to be made out of diamond for it to be worth that much.”

“It’s made with a corundum alloy, actually.” The merchant smiled, folding her hands on the table.

“Cor-” Ryoga paused. “You’re selling a  _Barian lance_?”

The merchant reached back and picked it up. “If you’d like to feel it, it has very good balance and weight. It’s deceptively light.” She held it out. “I made the alloy myself, you see. It was the product of very rare ingredients and a dangerous journey into the Sargasso Waste-”

Despite his surprise that a woman who had to be around his own age knew how to make alloy weapons  _and_ had survived the Waste, the price still pissed him off. “I’m not touching a Barian weapon-”

“I have never met a man who refused to even touch a weapon such as this before. Curious. Is there a reason for that?” She set it on the table and leaned back, her smile more prominent now.

Ryoga contemplated punching the woman (Rio would kill him later for hitting a woman, but he’d feel justified), but just as he clenched his gauntleted fist, a familiar voice spoke up.

“Dragoons generally carry a hatred for anything that has to do with the Barian World.”

Ryoga reached for his sword but a hand shot out from behind him and grabbed his wrist. He cursed himself for not sensing movement behind him as the figure shoved him face-first into the table. The merchant scooted backward in alarm and reached for the lance-

-Ryoga’s free hand shot out first and grabbed it.

It was light, and surprisingly had a near-perfect balance, but what took him aback more than anything was the lack of the shock he always received when touching Barian weapons. Either the merchant was lying about the corundum, or-

_A corundum alloy._

Was it possible that this merchant knew a compound that neutralized the Barian energy?

He didn’t have time to mull it over. He thrust the butt of the lance back into his assailant, who grunted and let him go, and spun around to intersect Kaito’s sword thrust. A few yards away, Rio had jumped out of the way and had her rapier aimed at Kaito, though held low; her shoulder was still bothering her, then.

“I see you’re not as useless as I’d thought, you filthy half-humans,” Kaito hissed, dancing back a few steps from Rio, but he eyed the lance warily.

“I see you know better than to engage a lancer with a sword,” Ryoga replied, stepping to the side to put some distance between himself and the large man who had grabbed him. The man was massaging his upper chest with a grimace. The merchant who had tried to swindle Ryoga with the lance seemed to have decided she didn’t want the lance back after all and slipped out in the fight. “How’d you find us?”

Kaito narrowed his eyes, almost as if he didn’t understand the question. “I felt you.”

Ryoga let out a skeptical laugh. “Sorry, I didn’t think I gave off those kinds of vibes.”

Kaito took a step forward before the large man cut in with a “Droite, now would be nice!”

_What-_

He heard Rio grunt before she clutched at her neck and stumbled sideways into an empty neighboring stall. He opened his mouth to call her name before he felt a sharp pain in his neck. Immediately, his legs tried to give out on him and he had to lean on the lance to hold himself upright.

“The hell is this?” he demanded weakly, clutching at his neck. A dart… “Poison? You cowardly sack of-” His arm went numb and the lance clattered from his hand, causing his entire body to collapse onto the ground. Ryoga forced his fingers to search the hard earth for his lance; they brushed it-

Kaito’s foot came down on his hand, and he felt the bones crunch ominously. He grunted in pain but before he could say anything, Kaito was straddling him again, sword at his throat.

Despite everything, despite the fact that he had been poisoned and bested by this spoiled prince  _twice_ now – if he could even call it getting “bested” when the prince had nothing to do with it – and could barely move his muscles by that point, he couldn’t help but laugh.

“I hold your life in my hands,” Kaito hissed, pressing the sword against his flesh. “Don’t take this situation lightly.”

Ryoga’s lips twisted upward. “You call me a filthy half-human, but you insist on being close to me.” Kaito pressed the sword harder and drew blood in an exact repeat of their last meeting. Ryoga flinched slightly but the smirk remained. “You seem to really like this position,  _my lord_.”

Kaito’s face contorted in rage and he backhanded Ryoga’s face with such force Ryoga wondered if his jaw had cracked. He tasted blood in his mouth from where he bit through his tongue and spat it out. His face stung and he had a feeling he was going to have a nasty mark on it. He was suddenly glad his hand was now numb from the poison, because he was sure his hand had at least a few broken bones in it, and broken hand bones hurt more than any other he had ever had.

“Don’t you  _ever_  speak to me in that way again,” Kaito breathed, leaning closer. “If you make one more filthy suggestion, I will cut out your tongue.”

It was, perhaps, a good thing the Arena was so deserted. A few merchants from tables down their side of the wall pointedly looked elsewhere during the fight and a few looked on with mild amusement; Ryoga distinctly heard one call out that they should be fighting in the court and not on the sidelines, a call that Kaito pointedly ignored.

“I’m completely at your mercy,” Ryoga whispered. “Go on, then. Kill me. And then kill my sister. And revel in the fact that you succeeded in staining your worthless soul with the blood of the last Dragoons.”

“All we want is to get back to our prince and save our kingdom.” Rio’s voice was barely audible.

Kaito looked over at her and back at Ryoga again. Ryoga didn’t know what processes were going on in the lord’s mind, but he seemed to be battling within himself, struggling to find an answer to whatever question plagued him. Finally, he pulled himself off Ryoga and climbed to his feet and glanced at the wooden fence behind the deserted merchant’s table. “Is he really alive, then?”

“Would Rio and I have a reason to live if he were dead?”

A slow nod. “Then you had better hurry.”

_What?_

“Why?” Rio said in a weak voice.

Kaito looked down at Ryoga. “If he was in Heartland, I am willing to stake my soul that he’s in Arclight now.” He paused, then laughed bitterly. “Well. So to speak.”

Ryoga barely had time to puzzle over this strange afterthought. “Why is he in Arclight?”

Kaito glanced around the Arena. “We should leave.”

“Why are they-” Ryoga’s demand was cut off as the large man, who had remained silently glaring at the Dragoons, grabbed him roughly under his arm before doing the same to his sister. He flopped like a straw doll in the man’s hold.

“Undo this poison and let us walk,” Ryoga grunted, acutely aware at the chuckles following them as they walked.

“It’ll wear off on its own,” the woman said in a bored voice, picking up the lance and following them out of the Arena. “I hope this thing was worth all the fuss you made.”

—-

The prince barely moved as Durbe strapped his hands and feet to the wooden table. Durbe had to admire him; he was holding himself together well, unlike the women. The Healer had slunk to the floor and buried her face in her hands, refusing to even look at any of them, and the strange silver-haired woman hissed at them and even attempted to claw Alit’s face with her unnaturally sharp nails before they shoved her into a separate cell. The Tsukumo man had no life left in his eyes and didn’t even react to the prince’s poor attempts at comforting whispers.

At least Tsukumo realized that things  _weren’t_ going to “be fine.”

Durbe had forced the Healer to tend to Astral’s leg injury, as well as a mild concussion that Durbe assumed he had obtained when the Arclights brought them down. She had cried the entire time, whispering  _I’m sorry_  over and over until Durbe wordlessly sent her back to stand by the door.

The chamber was large enough for Durbe, Mizael, the Healer, Tsukumo, and the prince, with Alit and Gilag standing guard outside the door; Durbe expected two more and hoped one of the two at least wouldn’t show up.

He had no such luck.

“Goooooood morning, Durbiekins!”

Durbe closed his eyes and restrained himself from sighing with difficulty. Beside him, Mizael tensed, and Durbe brushed the back of his hand against Mizael’s in what he hoped was a gesture of reassurance, but Mizael pulled his hand away as though Durbe had burned him, and crossed his arms instead.

“Vector.”

Vector clapped Durbe on the shoulder. Durbe’s hands twitched. “You sound so grumpy. Surely you’re thrilled at the honor of being the one to contain the power of the Astral World for your kingdom?”

“I don’t quite understand why you passed up such an honor yourself, Vector.”

Vector shrugged, holding his hands out in a manner that indicated to Durbe that he had either passed it up because he was ordered to or had his own reasons for making Durbe do it. Knowing Vector, probably the latter. “You’ve worked so hard for the sake of the Barian Empire. I think you’ve earned it.”

“I agree!”

Durbe glanced toward the door at King Byron, with his eerie look of total calm permanently plastered to his face. “Good morning, your majesty.”

Byron stopped by the table and looked down at Astral, whose eyes darted between the three lords and the king with a noticeable look of distress in his abnormal eyes. “Pleasure to meet you again, Prince Astral.”

Astral remained silent, and Vector giggled wildly. “He’s trying to hide how terrified he is. How adorable! Go ahead, then, Durbe. We’re all here now. No need to wait any longer.”

Durbe took a deep, calming breath before stepping forward. Astral’s frightened human eyes met his, and for a moment, he felt a tug of reluctance for what he was about to do.

But he was a lord, and Astral held powers that he needed to save his kingdom, so he plunged his hand forward toward Astral’s chest.

—-

The woman – Droite, Ryoga learned, and the man was Gauche – didn’t tell him exactly how long the poison would take to wear off, and for all Kaito’s insistence that they hurry back to Arclight, they had no choice but to stop and wait for the twins to regain proper use of their limbs again. It was, as far as Ryoga was concerned, the perfect time for Kaito to explain himself; why he had that mark on his eye, why he insisted that Astral and Yuma were in Arclight, a hundred miles from where they were supposed to be, how he could summon teleportation portals, and why he was after them. But Kaito remained silent through all of these questions, mouth moving as though working out his answers for himself, and rubbing the area of his chest directly over his heart with a distracted look in his eyes.

He was a man with many secrets, and Ryoga didn’t trust him. How did he know Kaito wasn’t just luring them to Arclight for the Barians? Until he met Kaito, Ryoga didn’t believe in the Heartland superstition that the Barian World marked those who betrayed their race to do the Barians’ bidding. But the mark was there, clear as day; one red eye and one blue, and Kaito seemed aware of it by the way he sometimes traced it with a shaky finger.

It took about three hours before Ryoga could move his fingers again, and another hour to regain mobility in his arms and legs. His hand hurt like hell; he had forgotten that Kaito had stepped on it, and he was sure now that at least a few bones were fractured, if not broken. Droite sat against a tree out of his reach, holding his lance. The poison had left Rio’s system about twenty minutes prior, and Gauche held her rapier while she silently glared at him.

“Are we your prisoners, then?” she demanded, breaking a long silence.

“It’s too much work to keep two Dragoons prisoner,” Kaito muttered, drawing in the mud with a stick.

“Then why are you still here? Why not just leave us – or kill us – and go on with whatever you’re doing?”

Kaito glanced over at her. She sat with her back rigid, jaw set firmly as the irritated look in her eyes matched his. “I can use you.”

Ryoga’s incredulous laugh paled next to Rio’s. “You can  _use_ us?” Rio climbed shakily to her feet, holding herself up against a nearby ash tree. “We aren’t  _tools_ , you stupid man, and we’re certainly not doing anything for  _you_.”

Kaito narrowed his eyes. “You forget who you’re speaking to.”

“No, I know  _exactly_ who I’m talking to. A selfish prince who betrayed his own kingdom and his own  _race_  to serve the  _Barians_!” She spat on the ground.

Kaito cleared the distance between them in a few strides and grabbed her by the shoulders, shoving her into the tree. She flinched at the impact but glared up at him as his face twisted in wrath.

“You know  _nothing_  of my circumstances,” he hissed. “You know  _nothing_  of my decisions or my motives, so don’t pretend to know you do, you abnormal half-humans.”

Gauche and Droite sat, silently watching the inevitable fight, looking almost bored. Ryoga wondered briefly why they were even with Kaito as he pulled himself up, legs still tingling as though they were in the process of waking up after sitting on them too long. “Let go of her.”

Kaito turned his head and met Ryoga’s eyes. “Gladly.” He released her shoulders and strode back to the stump where he had been sitting for the past few hours. Ryoga teetered on his feet for a moment, gritting his teeth at the discomfort in his limbs, before stumbling over to his sister.

“You okay?”

“I want to punch him in the face and make his eyes match.”

 Ryoga couldn’t help but smile in amusement at Rio’s ire. “How is your shoulder?”

“Agonizing.” She shot a glare at Kaito, who pointedly looked away. “If he doesn’t answer our questions soon, I’m going to run my rapier through his shoulder too.”

“I told you, I don’t have to answer-”

“If you want our  _help_ ” –Ryoga emphasized the word- “then I suggest you tell us what you’re doing here, first off. Otherwise I have no qualms killing you, prince or no.”

Kaito laughed wildly. “Oh? You’ve failed to kill me twice now. What makes you think this time will be any different?”

“This time I have my primary weapon. Keep your lackeys out of it and fight me fair. Man to man.” He wasn’t sure how well he’d be able to fight with an injured hand, but his pride far outweighed his pain at the moment.

Gauche mouthed the word  _lackeys_  as if spitting out venom and Droite pressed her lips together.

Kaito’s mouth twisted in a grin. “Interesting. I’ve always wondered what Dragoons were like in real combat. Droite, give him his lance.”

“I refuse.”

“What?”

“I,” she said slowly, “refuse.” She gestured with the weapon. “Just tell him what he wants to know. Gauche and I have business in Arclight that is best done quickly and every minute you waste  _overcompensating_  is a minute longer the kingdom is-” She cut off at a loud throat clearing by Gauche.

A look of comprehension dawned in Kaito’s eyes. “I was right then. You  _are_ assassins. Who are you killing in Arclight?”

“None of your goddamn business,” Gauche growled. “We’re all headed the same way, so I don’t see why we shouldn’t just travel together for a few days until we reach the palace.”

“The palace?” Kaito looked alarmed. “You’re killing one of the royal family?”

Droite gave Gauche a pained look. Ryoga was confused; what was going on here…?

But if  _they_  were headed to the palace too…

“Emperor Durbe.”

The three of them turned to look at him. Kaito narrowed his eyes again. “What?”

“You’re going to kill Emperor Durbe.” Ryoga laughed. It was suicidal, stupid, for whoever had sent these assassins to think they could get close enough to Durbe to kill him. There was no way Durbe wouldn’t be able to figure out who had been sent to kill him after their inevitable failure. “Are you in this too, Kaito? Your kingdom is fucked if they pin you with these two.” The way Droite and Gauche exchanged uncomfortable glances proved his suspicions.  _Unbelievable._

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” Kaito snapped. “My going to Arclight has nothing to do with killing anyone. I just happened to be thrown into their path is all. Anyway, why are you two going? Isn’t it to save your prince?”

“You haven’t told us why Prince Astral is in the palace to begin with,” Rio said, crossing her arms. “He was supposed to be in Heartland.”

Kaito clenched his fists and took a deep breath. “Your prince was seen in northern Heartland, near a trade outpost. I imagine he and his companions will be captured soon enough and taken to Arclight.”

Ryoga’s heart skipped a beat. He still remembered the shuddered last breaths of his king, remembered the way Vector had ripped out the tangible power in the king’s soul. He imagined Durbe doing the same to Astral. There would be no mercy from the Barians. He swallowed. “You said… you  _imagine_  they would be captured soon enough. So there’s still a chance-”

“There’s no chance.” Kaito pulled the lance out of Droite’s grasp and shoved it into Ryoga’s hands. Ryoga grimaced as the pain in his hand flared. “I’ve become very familiar with how the Barians work. Your friends are going to be captured, then tortured. They’re going to be strapped to a table and Durbe is going to rip their souls from their bodies as they scream, as their screams reverberate through the palace, because Barians don’t give a damn how many humans they hurt as long as they get the power they desire.” He walked away. “I need Prince Astral’s power to help…” He paused, but Ryoga caught the slip.  _Help?_  “I need Prince Astral’s power. You want your prince alive. I know the layout of the palace as well as I know my own. We can benefit each other.”

Gauche dropped Rio’s rapier on the ground at her feet, and she picked it up slowly, keeping her gaze on the large man. Ryoga looked down at his lance. It was a beautiful weapon, and he imagined he could have it through Kaito’s heart before Kaito could react. It was tempting.

He didn’t want to taint this weapon with the blood of a traitor.

Rio glanced up at her brother and lifted her eyebrows. He had never felt more wary of trusting anyone in his life, but if this prince was telling the truth…

“We had a saying in our village growing up,” he said. “ _My enemy’s friend is also my enemy_. How can we trust you not to lead us right to the Barians?”

Kaito stopped in his tracks and turned his head. “You don’t.”


	19. The Cards Dealt By Fate

The person following them – it was one person, definitely; probably a short one – crashed through the woods so clumsily that Rio wondered if the person was even  _trying_  to sneak up on them. She nudged her brother, who walked several paces behind Kaito and the assassins, and lifted an eyebrow. He turned his head slightly and sighed before nodding. They kept walking.

They had been walking for hours, and Rio’s limbs had finally started to feel normal again. Out of the three of their travelling companions, Droite and her poisons concerned her more than the men did, though Ryoga’s eyes remained locked on the back of Kaito’s head for most of the trek. The two trusted each other about as much as they could throw each other; Rio was going to have to be extra vigilant during her turn at the watch shift tonight. It was late afternoon, but she was starting to get tired already. Maybe she could get Ryoga to let her take the first rest.

“We’re drifting too far north already,” Ryoga muttered. “The closer we get to the palace, the heavier the waterways are going to be with Barians. We should reroute south and cross the river before heading north.”

“The rivers are too heavily guarded no matter where we are,” Kaito said from the front. Rio watched her brother’s eyes narrow; how had he heard them whispering from ten yards ahead? “We’re going around the lake.”

For all the man’s insistence that they hurry, he sure was taking his time. “That will add another six days to our journey,” Rio argued. “If you’re correct-”

“I am.”

“-then we probably don’t have six days before they’re going to…”

Her unfinished sentence hung in the air.

Kaito gave it a moment. “We don’t have a choice if we want to make it there without running into entire platoons of Barians.”

“I have an idea,” Ryoga growled. “Why don’t you just make one of your fancy Barian portals and take us there right now so we don’t have to circumnavigate almost into the Sargasso Waste to get there only to find our prince and friends dead?”

Kaito stopped abruptly and narrowed his eyes at Ryoga. “For the last of a race of supposedly brilliant warriors, you are  _completely_  ignorant of how Barian powers work.”

“Enlighten me then,  _my lord._ ”

Rio sighed and grabbed Ryoga’s arm. “For the love of the gods, Ryoga, quit antagonizing him.”

Ryoga gestured at him with his lance. “He has the ability to transport anywhere he pleases. We saw him do it-”

“All of you need to shut up!” Droite cut in loudly, holding up a throwing knife. “I hear something.”

Rio heard it too; the slight rustle in the forest behind them, the snapping of twigs under a small boot. She felt the disturbance in the air and gave her brother a slight push to the left.

Caught unaware, he stumbled backward, looking bewildered and annoyed, until a knife lodged itself in the tree directly behind where his neck had been.

Her rapier was in her hands the second Kaito’s was in his, and Gauche assumed a fighting stance, holding his fists in front of him. Rio remembered the last man she had seen posing like that – he hadn’t even been a man at all, had he – and she involuntarily rolled her healed shoulder back.

“I want my lance back,” a commanding female voice called from behind a tree.

Ryoga gritted his teeth and Rio recognized the voice. “Come and get it, then.”

The merchant from before stepped out from behind a tree and lifted her chin, giving Ryoga an appraising sort of look – a disapproving look, even – and pulled the hood of her cloak down, revealing a mop of red hair.

“That’s theft,” she snapped, crossing her arms, and Rio almost laughed. This girl had spirit, standing up against a group of five armed people. “That lance is very valuable, and there is only one weapon like it in the world.”

“Oh?” Ryoga raised his eyebrows. “I hope you’re charging a royal sum for that one, too.”

“I don’t have it!” She turned her gaze to Kaito and the assassins, narrowing her eyes at Kaito’s raised sword and Droite’s throwing knives. “I modeled my weapon off of his. It took years to get the right materials and figure out the right compound, and I almost died in the Waste getting it-”

“What the hell is in the Waste that you needed for a weapon?” Kaito demanded.

She pulled her gaze from Kaito back to Ryoga. “A rare plant that neutralizes Barian powers.”

Ryoga’s mouth fell open slightly and Rio didn’t need to turn around to see the others’ expressions. She was plenty amazed by this proclamation; it seemed incredible that this woman had found a compound that did to Barians what the Baria crystals did to humans, but if it were true…

“Who told you how to make the weapon?” Rio asked quietly.

The woman looked uncomfortable now, almost as though she regretted entering into this conversation. Her leg bounced and she bit her lip. “A… a man from the Astral Kingdom. Maybe seven years ago, he came to my village with his son, looking to sell some wheat or something, and I saw his sword and he said… he said he travelled to the Sargasso Waste and found a plant that had wiped out almost an entire village after somehow getting in the water supply, like thirty years ago or something. Anyway, he talked about how he made his sword out of it and the Baria Crystal and… I kind of didn’t listen as well as I should because he had a cute… son…” The color in her face matched her hair. “Point is, I managed to recreate it, finally, and you stole it.”

Ryoga looked increasingly annoyed by her long explanation, but Rio found something very interesting about it. “What was his name?”

Her cheeks turned even redder. “Er… the son’s name was Yuma, I think; I don’t remember his last name…”

She kept talking, but Rio stopped listening now and turned to Ryoga, whose mouth was open slightly, eyes darting around aimlessly, as though he were trying to process this. Was it possible?  She thought it must not be, but she remembered one of the first things Yuma ever said to her brother.

_My dad gave me this sword before he died. It’s very important to me._

Could Yuma hold one of the keys to defeating the Barians? Could he have been holding it all along?

“Tsukumo.” Ryoga’s voice was quiet.

The woman cut off abruptly. “Pardon?”

“Tsukumo. The man’s last name was Tsukumo. Kazuma Tsukumo.”

The woman nodded slowly, brows furrowing, but she frowned at Ryoga. “Yeah, that sounds…”

“What is going on here?” demanded a voice behind them, and Rio tensed slightly. She had forgotten about Kaito for a moment. “What are you talking about?”

“What is your name?” Ryoga ignored Kaito completely, and Rio could hear Kaito’s mutters of indignation behind them.

“A-Anna. Anna Kozuki- hey!”

Ryoga cleared the distance to the woman and grabbed her roughly by the arm. She let out a cry of angry protest and tried to pull away, but he ignored her and dragged her back to the others. “Anna has some very interesting information for us.”

—-

The moment Durbe’s hand made contact with Astral’s chest, an excruciating jolt ran through his body, and he stumbled back. Mizael caught him by the shoulders and steadied him. Durbe glanced down at his hand, which was smoking faintly, and burned. He was so confused, so engrossed in the pain in his body and hand, that he didn’t hear Mizael order the Healer to him, and barely registered her flinch as she touched his hand and poured her energy into his body.

He had never been Healed by a human before; he wasn’t sure what he expected, but it felt more or less the same as being Healed by a Barian, except accompanied by the unpleasant sensation of being doused in ice water.

It was an agonizingly slow process, though, which gave Durbe time to ponder what had happened. He was tired of his normal rituals going wrong, but this one definitely should have worked.

His eyes lingered on the pendant hanging from Astral’s neck. It had been when he touched it that he received the jolt of pain, so perhaps it had something to do with the rejection…?

When she finished, she leaned on the table, breathing heavily, and he realized that the process of Healing him drained her more than it had when she Healed Astral – or perhaps she was still feeling the effects of the earlier Healing. He sent her back to the door, and she slid down the wall and buried her face in her hands. He lifted his other hand to his shoulder and tapped Mizael’s hand, which was still tightly gripping him. Mizael let go.

“Did you know this was going to happen, Vector?” Durbe asked softly.

Vector held out his hands pacifyingly. “How was I supposed to know his body would reject your touch? Still,” he added with a giggle, “it’s a good thing to know, eh?”

“You two-faced bastard-” Mizael started forward but Durbe threw out an arm and caught him in the chest.

“Not another word out of you, not another motion or step, or I will ask you to leave, Mizael,” Durbe warned.

He knew Mizael wanted to argue, but Mizael’s eyes darted toward Vector, whose face was full of laughter, and Byron, who had his head tilted curiously, and seemed to decide it wasn’t worth the effort. He stepped back behind Durbe and glowered at the ground, arms crossed again.

Durbe let out a tiny sigh of relief and returned his gaze to Vector. “How did you extract the power from his parents?”

Vector shrugged and held up a clawed hand. “Same way you’re trying. I just shoved my hand through the king’s chest and drew the energy into my gem.” His shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Oh, you should have heard him _scream_.”

On the table, Astral made a soft noise, perhaps a whimper or the choked-back beginning of a venomous retort. Either way, it drew all sets of eyes back to him and seemed to encourage Vector, who leaned over him, faces almost touching. Astral tried to maintain eye contact, but failed, and ended up glancing desperately to the side, eyes filling with tears.

“I have your daddy’s powers inside of me,” Vector said in a loud whisper. “I’d have your mommy’s too but Mizzy over there got her with an arrow instead.” He sighed dramatically and straightened up. “What a shame. What a _waste_.”

“Stop.”

It seemed Yuma had finally pulled himself out of his thoughts. His eyes still held that dead look, but instead of being directed at the ground, they were on Vector.

“Oh?” Vector sauntered over to the chains holding Yuma tightly to the wall and crouched down. “You’re Astral’s bodyguard, aren’t you?” He jerked his head toward Astral. “Nice job.”

Yuma’s mouth tightened and Durbe could see his chin quiver. It was just like Vector to rub salt in the wounds, but seeing Yuma chained to the wall gave Durbe another idea.

“Lord Byron, might I ask for a favor?”

Byron lifted his eyebrows. “I suppose.”

Durbe held his hand over the pendant. “I cannot seem to touch Prince Astral as long as he wears this, but perhaps since you are human, you will be able to remove it for me?”

Byron inclined his head ever so slightly and leaned over Astral. As Durbe suspected, the moment Byron’s fingers touched the pendant, he pulled his hand back as though shocked. He looked at his hand in surprise for a moment, and then laughed quietly. “Interesting.”

Durbe took Byron’s hand and examined it. There was no sign of a burn or any other wound but it confirmed his suspicions. The pendant protected Astral’s powers – particularly against Barians – and only Astral could remove it.

“Untie him.” Durbe released Byron’s hand and waited as Mizael gave him a puzzled look but began undoing the restraints. “When you’re finished, have him switch places with Lieutenant Tsukumo.”

He heard Vector’s small  _oh_  of surprise, followed by a quiet chuckle. He hated the fact that what he was about to do was something only Vector would do otherwise, but he had no choice. He needed the powers that Astral held. His own soul had been depleted far too much lately and he needed to restore it, even a bit.

_You almost killed yourself._

_Fulfill your oath, Durbe, and don’t do something like this again._

How close to death had he brought himself?

Yuma didn’t put up any resistance, which Durbe found odd, but at Durbe’s request, Mizael removed Yuma’s shirt and strapped him face-down on the table. Yuma lay still and silent, eyes on Astral, who was now chained loosely to the wall and seemed to realize what was about to happen by the way his lips parted and his brows knotted.

Durbe pulled out his knife and positioned it over Yuma’s well-toned back. He seemed to take good care of his body. “Prince Astral, I will ask only once. If you wish to spare your bodyguard from this pain, remove your pendant.”

Astral’s hand gripped it so tightly that it drew blood; his eyes were wide now and the tears streamed freely from them.

Yuma pulled his head from the table and looked at his prince. “If you remove that pendant,” he whispered hoarsely, “I will never forgive you.”

Astral squeezed his eyes shut, hand clenching around the pendant, and he shook his head. Yuma nodded, expression resigned, and he leaned it back on the table.

With another soft sigh, Durbe touched the knife to Yuma’s back. He couldn’t have any reservations now. If he hesitated too long, if he waited to steel himself, he would show his weakness to Vector and Lord Byron.

Yuma’s body tensed, his fingernails clawing at the table as he ground his teeth. Durbe cut a neat vertical line down the left side of Yuma’s back, and when this failed to elicit the desired response, he turned to the other side.

This time, Yuma let out a high-pitched whine, body straining futilely against the restraints.

Durbe kept his voice conversational. “I have a feeling you wouldn’t give in if we hurt you, Prince Astral, but I have found in my years spent studying humans that humans can’t bear to see a loved one suffer in their stead.” Durbe lifted the knife. “They’ll do anything to protect those they hold most dearly.” Yuma twitched on the table, hands clenching and unclenching. Durbe recognized the movement. It was the same movement many of the weaker Dragoons – children, the elderly – had made as they lay dying from shallow wounds inflicted by the Baria Crystal, wounds that should not have killed them otherwise.

 _Those with Astral powers are more sensitive to the Baria Crystal than normal humans_ , he mused, frowning at Yuma.  _Could it be that he_ does _have some connection to the Astral World after all?_

Perhaps his grandmother and sister knew nothing about Kazuma Tsukumo’s experiments, but Yuma… Yuma very well might.

In which case, his sister and grandmother might be helpful after all.

“You’re too soft, Durbiekins,” Vector breathed from behind him, but Durbe ignored him. He gestured at the Healer.

“Heal him,” he said, “and we’ll start over.”

—-

The bed was soft beneath him. It felt like he hadn’t slept in a proper bed for years; had it only been a few weeks? He sighed and slouched deeper into his pillow, smiling as a calloused hand brushed his face.

“Sleeping on the job, Ryoga?” a voice said, amused.

“I think I deserve to sleep after everything we’ve been through lately,” he murmured.

He heard her snort, but her lips pressed into the back of his neck.

“Affection? I thought it was duty with you.”

“It’s not always duty, Ryoga. I did love you, I thought. I don’t think you felt the same.”

“I loved you like I love Rio. Maybe a little differently. But…” He couldn’t finish that thought. “We could have married. If it hadn’t happened. Maybe, had things been different, I  _could_  have loved you that way.”

He felt her hands on his upper back, felt her warm breath tickle his shoulder blades. “But things didn’t work out that way, Ryoga. They couldn’t have, you know.”

“Why?”

“You need to accept the cards dealt to you.”

These words were familiar, chilling. He felt the sensation of drowning, of being trapped under the water’s surface, held there by forces he neither knew nor understood. The soft bed felt suddenly like a cold, rocky lake bottom.

“What do you-”

“You have a different calling in your life. A different purpose. Accept that everyone who comes in contact with you becomes drawn to it, becomes part of it.”

“I don’t understand.”

Her lips touched his ear. “You’re a prisoner, Ryoga. And everyone who touches you, everyone who has the misfortune of crossing your path, becomes shackled to you. They become prisoners too, bound together for eternity.”

“Mara, what are you talking about? Prisoners of what?”

He turned to look at her, expecting to see her scarred face and fire-red hair dipping into her green eyes. Instead, he found himself staring straight into the glowing eyes of the monster that had haunted his sleep for the weeks leading to his kingdom’s downfall. It reached out its clawed hand and gripped Ryoga’s chest, cutting into it, right over his heart. Ryoga couldn’t speak; couldn’t scream, couldn’t move, couldn’t  _understand_.

“Fate.”

—-

His eyes snapped open.

It was dark; the stars twinkled brightly above, their brightness unimpeded by the sliver of light coming from the crescent moon. The only other light came from a small fire nearby, which crackled as Kaito prodded a stick at it.

“You let your guard down,” Kaito said softly, glancing up. “I could have killed you while you two were muttering to yourselves over there.”

He was right, of course; it had been a careless mistake to let himself fall asleep while he was supposed to be on first watch. He glanced over at Rio, her brow furrowed as inaudible words slipped past her lips.  _You must be having nightmares too,_  he thought, feeling a stab of sorrow; what he wouldn’t give for his sister to be freed from them.

Nearby, Anna lay curled up under her cloak. She had complained incessantly for four hours about how she was being  _kidnapped_ and that they had no right to keep her against her will, but in the end, she went along with them – presumably because Ryoga refused to give up such a priceless weapon and Kaito managed to convince her that going alone with them ensured that the Barians didn’t  _accidentally_ hear about the Barian-killing weapon she had created. Fear of the Barians prevailed over her anger at her “captors,” and she stopped complaining and instead reminisced at length about her meeting with Kazuma and – quite a bit – Yuma.

It had bored Kaito, but Ryoga listened attentively. Kazuma was a lieutenant in the Royal Guard before he requested a command post elsewhere, and went on leave for extended periods of time. About three months before he was killed in Sargasso, Kazuma had returned with a sword, claiming that it would change the world.

Ryoga heard these stories when news of Kazuma’s death reached the Astral Kingdom – he had been nearly eighteen at the time, and an officer himself – but he didn’t believe in a sword that powerful, and at any rate, Kazuma hadn’t had it with him upon his death.

He pulled his cloak back on and sat across the fire from Kaito. Gauche sat up against a tree while Droite slept next to him, but they were out of earshot as long as Ryoga spoke quietly.

“What are you doing wandering the forest in Arclight with two foreign assassins, Kaito?”

“It’s none of your concern.”

Ryoga nodded slowly and tossed a handful of dried leaves into the fire. They sat in silence for a moment before Ryoga spoke again. “Do you believe in fate?”

Kaito snorted. “Are you suggesting we were destined to fight the Barians together?”

“Possibly.” In the flickering firelight, he could see Kaito roll his eyes.

“If we were all foreordained to some higher purpose, if we are all led down the same path regardless of what choices we make in life, then what’s the point in living?” Kaito stared into the fire unblinkingly. Ryoga suspected he had given this a lot of thought lately. “What’s the point of sorrow and joy and hope if we’re just going to be yanked into something, no matter how much we want to change it? We live like cattle, always being led back to the slaughterhouse.” He laughed softly, bitterly. “I like to think of myself as a man capable of rational thought, not as a beast doomed to spend its life eating grass only to wind up on the dinner table while gods feast on my flesh.”

Ryoga disagreed with some of this graphic train of thought, but he decided to take a different approach with Kaito. “What is it you want to change so badly about your future, Kaito? What choices have you made in the past that you are trying so desperately to make right?”

“It’s none of your concern,” he repeated. His hand went to his chest again. He rubbed it frequently, almost as though he didn’t notice he was doing it, and Ryoga couldn’t help but wonder if Kaito was experiencing pains that he didn’t want to share with anyone. There was a spot of dried blood over it – Kaito tried to cover it with his cloak – so perhaps he was injured…?

Still, he didn’t expect Kaito to share everything with him, but it would have been nice to know something of what he was getting into with this sketchy alliance with a man who had openly admitted to carrying Barian powers.

_Everyone who touches you, everyone who has the misfortune of crossing your path, becomes shackled to you. They become prisoners too, bound together for eternity._

Maybe he had no choice but to trust Kaito. Maybe Kaito would help him and Rio save their kingdom, whether he wanted to or not.

“If you don’t believe in fate bringing us together, why are you helping us?”

Kaito tossed his smoldering stick all the way into the fire and watched the flames lick around it. “Because you’re not  _them_.”

“Barians?”

Kaito finally looked up. “You spent all day talking about that man, the one with the sword. Where can we find him?”

“He’s dead.”

“…I see.” Kaito picked up another stick and resumed his stoking of the fire.

Talking to Kaito was one of the most uncomfortable experiences Ryoga had ever endured. The man was tight-lipped and of few words, for the most part; secretive, scheming, conceited, but undoubtedly shrewd. He had grown up being taught how to play politics, where Ryoga had to learn them the hard way, and it wasn’t even something he found himself good at. He seemed to disdain the Barians, yet he gave himself to them. Ryoga could only assume he had done it out of what he perceived as necessity; perhaps the Barians had threatened someone he loved.

“Where is the sword, then?”

“With his son.”

“And where can we find his son?”

“If you’re right about Prince Astral, then we will find his son in the Arclight Palace.”

Kaito’s hand froze. “The man’s son is Prince Astral’s travelling companion? Which means the sword is…”

Ryoga’s hand clenched. A weapon designed to neutralize Barians was a huge step up from where they had been, but it was only one weapon. “The man’s son is Yuma Tsukumo, personal bodyguard to Prince Astral, the rightful heir to the Astral throne and the man I have dedicated my soul to serving, and they are accompanied by Kotori Mizuki, one of the most skilled Healers in the kingdom and a woman who has saved my life and my sister’s life more than once. They are more important to me than the sword.”

 They locked eyes and Kaito took a slow sip from his water pouch. When he lowered it, he tilted his head slightly. “You’ve spoken more of Yuma Tsukumo today than you have of anyone else. What is he to you?”

 _It’s none of your concern_  almost slipped from his tongue, but he held it in. That would sound like he was hiding something. He certainly didn’t want to give Kaito the impression that he and Yuma were…

 _We aren’t_ , he told himself firmly. It was the truth.

He tore his gaze away and looked back into the fire. “I met Yuma a little over two years ago, when he enlisted in the Guard. I had the misfortune of being delegated the task to greet the new recruits by the Captain-Commander.”

_He had a stupid, childish grin on his face, like he was part of an exercise class and not an army, and he rubbed his hand on the hilt of his sword as though itching to show it off._

“I told him that I didn’t think he would last a week, and asked why he was even there.”

_My dad served this kingdom, and I am going to follow in his footsteps._

“His father, I found out, had died a few years back. I remembered the man, though not well. Yuma was a lot like him – he looked like him, he had the same annoying saying –  _kattobing,_ whatever it meant – and he even fought like him.”

_My dad gave me this sword before he died. It’s very important to me._

“He was a talented fighter. Polished. Like he had been in the Guard for years.”

_Yuma’s movement with the sword was fluid, graceful; he almost danced from one form to the next, never breaking stride. His sword glistened in the sunlight, taking on a prismatic glow. In his eyes was a youthful optimism as he parried Captain Kamishiro’s feint and pressed his sword next to the captain’s neck._

“He beat me in swordplay – beat me soundly – and it pissed me off to no end how happy he was about it.”

_Looks like I win, Captain._

“I asked him if he had any idea what it was like to kill another man. What it was like to be in battle, to hold your enemy’s life in your hands. To feel your weapon pierce their body, to feel the blood seep through, onto the ground, to watch as their eyes widen in terror as they realize what’s happening. To watch the life leave their eyes.”

Kaito’s mouth tightened.  _I’m making him uncomfortable. He’s never killed anyone before, then._  He felt less wary of Kaito, knowing that the prince probably didn’t have the courage to take another’s life, for all his bravado.

“He told me he would deal with that when it came. That he would use his sword only to protect his friends, because they counted on him.” Ryoga closed his eyes. “Despite his… overenthusiastic nature, he was a good soldier. He did what he was told to, and did it well, and people admired him. He was a natural outdoorsman, and when I went on patrols, he escorted me to learn more. I promoted him after about a year. He was going to be sent to command an outpost along the river, but I…”

_I’ll go where I need to go, and do what you want me to do, Captain._

“I wanted him to go on a scouting mission first. To Arclight. I’d heard the Barians were making movements toward it and I needed to see for myself. I was supposed to go with, but the Captain-Commander…”

_If it’s the Barians, I want to go. Don’t worry, Ryoga, I’ll be fine. I’m better than you at fighting anyway, right?_

“When they returned, Mara died, along with almost the entire squad. Those that weren’t dead already died later that night. Yuma alone survived. But he wasn’t the same after that. He tried to take his own life. When he told me what happened that night…”

_It was hell on earth, Ryoga._

“I couldn’t blame him.” Ryoga took a deep breath and glanced up at the stars. It was becoming easier to tell Kaito this, though he still didn’t fully understand why he should trust Kaito. Maybe he thought Kaito would trust him first. If they weren’t bound together by the chains of fate before, they certainly were now. “But I changed my mind. I wanted to keep him at the Palace, where he would be safe. I made him Prince Astral’s personal assistant. It made him happier, I think. He had some of his old faith back, he smiled more. But a few weeks ago, on the day he was to be promoted to Prince Astral’s bodyguard…”

Kaito nodded slowly. “The Barians invaded.”

“He wasn’t safe after all.”

Kaito rubbed his eyes tiredly. “You care about him.”

“I feel responsible for him. I was responsible for the detachment at Arclight, I was responsible for failing my king and queen when the palace was invaded, and I was responsible for the protection of every one of the men who died that day in the palace. I have failed every goddamn thing I have ever cared about and Yuma… is one of the only people on this earth I have left. That’s why I am determined to get him back. That’s why I’m determined to save my prince and Kotori.”

Yes, he was responsible for Yuma. Despite what Yuma had tried to tell him, it was Ryoga’s fault that Yuma had been placed with that detachment in the first place. Yuma would have been better off positioned at the river outpost. Everyone under Mara’s command would have died anyway, but Yuma would have been untainted by the feeling of his sword taking another’s life, of watching his friends die around him despite his efforts to save them.

 _But without Yuma, Mara would have died there, and you never would have been able to say goodbye to her_ , a small voice in his mind reminded him.

But in exchange, was he to be denied the opportunity to say goodbye to Yuma and Kotori? Would he then be denied his prince, and his kingdom, and the shred of honor he still desperately clung to?

 _What is Yuma to you_?

He was afraid to answer that question, even to himself, because the shame of it was too great to bear.

He had nothing more to say on the matter.

Kaito stood. “I’m going to rest. I trust you will have the decency not to murder me in my sleep.”

Ryoga gave a curt nod and Kaito headed off a short way, where he found a patch of grass and curled up on it.

He should wake Rio and let himself rest but he was too afraid to fall asleep again.

—-

The sun had gone down hours ago, but Haruto hadn’t moved from his spot on his chair by the balcony window. Faker was concerned; Kaito had been gone over a week, and Haruto had hardly slept in that time. His face was becoming taut and dry, and no matter what Faker tried to tell him, Haruto refused to move, refused to eat, and refused to speak. He waited for his brother to return. It was as simple as that.

Not that Faker believed Kaito would return. Lord Durbe had sent a blunt letter to him three days ago, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell Haruto its contents.

_Your son went missing in Arclight despite a life-threatening injury. We’re searching for him but do not give it hope. With the severity of his particular injuries, he has, at best, only a few days left to live unless we can find him first._

It would devastate Haruto.

Durbe’s lingering warning from their dinner the week before – two weeks? Three? It was impossible to keep track at this point – wouldn’t leave his mind.  _We believe that if he is brought to Arclight, we will be able to allow him to exercise his powers in a controlled environment._

Would the Barians have killed Kaito purposefully in order to get a hold of Haruto? Was Kaito the only one standing in their way of getting Haruto? Kaito’s demands, Kaito’s ultimate sacrifice – were they not enough for the Barians?

He didn’t want to believe that his son was dead, but…

He sat tentatively in the chair next to Haruto’s and watched his youngest son’s emotionless expression. “Haruto, you’re going to be sick if you don’t-”

“It’s clearer.” Haruto’s voice was barely audible.

“What?”

“The dragon nears its awakening.” Haruto’s face twisted into a grotesque smile as he turned his head to Faker.  It was a terrifying expression, sickening, and looked nothing at all like his friendly son. Faker’s hands clenched on the sides of his chair and he resisted with difficulty the urge to get up and leave the room. “The world will soon burn.”


	20. Hell on Earth

Three days felt like an eternity.

Even with the constant Healing of the deep cuts in his skin – his back, his legs, his chest, his arms – the pain jolting through his body was almost too much to bear.

By the end of the second day, as Durbe trickled some kind of liquid over his back that felt like fire against his bloody wounds, Yuma wanted it to end; he wanted to die, and he contemplated letting Durbe have what he wanted from him. But he had to keep Astral safe as long as possible. As Durbe’s voice filled the room, Yuma could only pray to the gods he believed for so long had abandoned him; praying for reprieve, praying for someone to save them, praying for the strength to keep his mouth shut despite the physical torment Durbe put him through, which became more inventive by the hour. His questions were often the same, and even though Yuma didn’t know the answer to half of them, the only sounds he let escape his throat were grunts and moans of agony as the knife pierced his skin and he was forced once more to endure the raw power of the Baria Crystal in his blood.

_What experiments was your father performing in the Sargasso Waste?_

_How is it possible to tap directly into the power of the Astral realm?_

_Where are the Kamishiro twins?_

Throughout each of Yuma’s screams, Astral squeezed his eyes shut, praying quietly. The Barians were doing this to Yuma to force Astral to remove the pendant. But Yuma was proud of him. Astral didn’t give in, and neither would he.

Vector had tried cutting the cord around Astral’s neck instead of touching the pendant, but the knife seared Vector’s hand as it made contact. When this failed, he stomped around and complained loudly until Durbe threatened to kick him out. Durbe carried the most weight in the room; that much was obvious. Mizael barely spoke after his initial outburst the first day, Byron came and went with moderate interest in the proceedings, and Alit and Gilag stood outside the door at Durbe’s behest.

He registered dimly how Durbe and Vector didn’t seem to get along. They argued constantly, and Vector openly mocked Durbe’s “softness” and asked for five minutes with Yuma, which Durbe refused to grant him.

_I can break him in three minutes, Durbie. Physical pain will only get so far. If you break his mind… that’s where the real fun is._

Yuma hadn’t been moved from his face-down position on the table for the past two days. At night, they left him there, alone with his thoughts and his pain, and took Astral and Kotori somewhere else. He hadn’t seen Cathy since she had tried to attack Alit. He hoped she wasn’t dead. It would be one more death on his hands, one more stain on his soul.

As usual, Durbe was the first to enter the room, followed closely by Mizael, dragging Astral along in the crystalline chains that killed Astral’s powers. Mizael’s expression was usually hard to read, but today he narrowed his eyes at Durbe, who had a book tucked under his arm. As Mizael chained Astral to the wall, Alit and Gilag entered, dragging Akari and Haru with them. Yuma’s heart clenched as Akari whimpered at the sight of her brother lying on the table, and tears poured silently down Haru’s face while Alit settled them against the wall near Astral. Yuma felt Mizael’s clawed hands pull at his restraints and pull him roughly from the table. In addition to the searing pain in the raw scars all over his body, his muscles were sore from his prostrate position from the past few days. It hurt to turn his head. Mizael gave him a rough shove toward his family, and he stumbled forward and collapsed into Akari’s arms.

She gripped him around his bare shoulders and pulled him closer. He placed his stiff arms around her waist and fought back a sob as his grandmother rested her head on Akari’s other shoulder and gripped Yuma’s hand.

He had his family back, but he knew he wouldn’t have them for very long.

“Yuma,” she murmured, pressing his head into her shoulder.

“You were right,” Yuma whispered hoarsely. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

“I hope we can reach some kind of understanding today,” Durbe murmured, flipping idly through the front pages of the book as Akari frantically ran her fingers through Yuma’s hair. “It’s not necessarily how I’d do things myself, but sometimes… you must do unpleasant things for the benefit of the people as a whole.” He sounded as though he were talking to himself; his voice was soft and distracted.  

Mizael snorted softly at these words and resumed his position behind Durbe. If Durbe heard it, he gave no indication. His eyes followed Vector, who had just entered the room, eyes glistening as though he were at a festival and not a torture chamber.

“I wonder, Lieutenant - have you told anyone other than Captain Kamishiro your account of that night? The night Arclight fell?” He gestured toward Astral, whose eyes darted up to meet Durbe’s. “You told Prince Astral, I assume. Not your sister, though. Nor your grandmother.” He paused and placed his finger on the page. “Captain Kamishiro spares no details in this. You gave a thorough report. Now, I know you’re too stubborn to give in and answer what I want answered, but I imagine your family might just have a different opinion of you when they hear of the  _monstrous_ things you did.”

Yuma stopped breathing.

Durbe straightened his shoulders and read in a clear voice over Yuma’s weak protests. “We arrived about a mile outside the palace, two hours after sunset-”

Yuma tried to pull away from Akari. She tightened her grip. “No, please-”

“ _Yuma-_ ”

“-where we waited with the Captain-Commander at the edge of the woods-”

“ _Stop!_ ”

But it was fruitless, and Yuma slumped back in Akari’s arms, tears flowing freely now, while Durbe recounted Yuma’s nightmares in a terribly emotionless voice.

—-

Mara paced her horse Miryu to mask her anxiety, one hand on the reigns, the other clenching her slender lance. Her men sat on stumps, logs, and the ground in the sparsely wooded treeline near the Arclight Palace as their horses grazed on the low foliage. Many looked bored, but others, watching her closely, could sense her unease. One young man approached her hesitantly, hand resting on the hilt of his sword respectfully. As a stark difference to her dark armor, he wore a white uniform with red armor, cloak, and boots.

“Commander?”

She glanced at him and shifted the reigns to stop Miryu’s saunter. “Lieutenant Tsukumo.”

He squinted through the trees at the dim light shining from the castle a mile off. “I have a really uncomfortable feeling.”

She nodded slowly and subconsciously placed a hand to a scar on her cheek. “As do I, Lieutenant.”

“Why…” He hesitated, looking embarrassed. Even as an officer – albeit a low-ranking one – he had little place questioning his orders, especially not to the highest ranking officer in the Guard.

“Speak freely, Yuma.” She narrowed her eyes at the palace.

He shifted his hand from his hilt to rest at his side. “Why does Captain Kamishiro think something is going to happen here? Why does he think the Barians are going to attack Arclight?”

Her green eyes glinted in the dim light as she looked slowly back at him. “The Barians have already broken the peace treaty signed fifty years ago when they crossed through Arclight into Astral ten years ago and slaughtered every man, woman, and child in my village. The Captain believes – and I agree – that the attack was in preparation for a larger scale assault. Arclight is not only closest to Baria but also the largest and most resource-rich kingdom. If Arclight falls, the other three will go with it.”

Yuma shivered despite the warm night.

Movement.

Mara pulled out an eyeglass and peered at the castle gates. Three hooded figures, heading north along the river. She couldn’t tell from this distance, but she somehow knew that one was short and built, another slender and taller, and the third significantly larger. No, there was one more. An average sized figure marched meekly between the large man and the short one. Even from this distance, the long, thick braid was unmistakable.

She bit back a curse. “Barians,” she grunted. “They’ve got Byron.”

The lazy, bored atmosphere changed instantly as the three dozen scouts lounging throughout the clearing sprang to their feet and drew their swords. Yuma unsheathed his sword slowly as Mara slid from Miryu’s saddle, handed Yuma her lance, and reached in her armor for a pen and a scrap of paper. She scribbled a note and handed it to one of the scouts.

“Get this back to Captain Kamishiro as quickly as possible. Switch horses at the Wyvern Shrine.” The rider gave a quick salute and kicked his horse into action. Mara gripped Miryu’s reigns and took a deep breath before swinging herself into the saddle. She brushed her fire-red hair out of her eyes and turned back to her men.

“Let’s get those Barian sons of bitches.”

A buzz of agreement swept through the band. Yuma handed her the lance and swung into his own saddle, one hand still clutching his sword. The feeling of unease intensified.

“Commander,” he murmured. “It feels stronger. Like…”

“An electric current running through the air,” she muttered, tracing the scar on her face with a stout finger. He nodded. “Yes, I feel it too. Well, no time to waste. We have to rescue the king and if we can kill those murderous bastards in the process, all the better for us.”

The words were no sooner out of her mouth when a bright red light flared up in the direction the Barians had been taking Byron. She swore loudly and waved her soldiers on.

They tore through the sparse woods and emerged in front of the castle gates only moments later. Mara’s gaze swept over the guards, arrows sticking from several bodies lying in pools of their own warm blood, eyes glassed over. She turned Miryu in the direction the Barians had taken. A lone hooded figure blocked the path.

“I thought you might show up,” the man said tonelessly. Behind him, a terrible scream pierced the air, accompanied again by the flash of red light and the electric current, more pronounced now she was closer to it. Mara flinched and tightened her grip on the reigns as Miryu danced nervously. The man turned his head slightly. “Lovely sound, wouldn’t you agree, Commander?”

“What are you doing to him?” she growled.

The man shrugged. “King Byron didn’t much care for our negotiations, so we’re… persuading him. He’ll come ‘round before too long.”

“Bastards,” Mara spat.

He tilted his head. “That’s not terribly polite of you. Of course, I haven’t told you my name. Where are my manners?” He reached up and pulled down his hood, revealing a thin, pointed human face with a red tattoo travelling under and above each eye. He lifted his long hair from under his cloak, and the eerie red glow behind him caught a golden ornament dangling from the wing-like hair on the side of his head.  “There, that’s better, isn’t it? I am General Mizael.”

Yuma recognized the name. Captain Kamishiro had mentioned him a few times during their scouting missions. “You belong to Durbe.”

Mizael turned his gaze to Yuma. “I belong to no one.”

Mara snorted. “Did anyone ever tell you that you make a very pretty human?”

“What a disgusting insult.”

The light stopped, and with it, the screaming. Mizael closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. “Well, it seems that is over with. No need to stall any longer, then.” He pulled back his cloak and unsheathed a handsome sword. Even from this distance, Yuma could see what looked like a dragon carved into the hilt.

Mara slid off Miryu and held out her lance. “You’re probably very skilled, but one Barian with a sword can’t defeat my entire squad alone.”

A smirk tugged at the corners of Mizael’s mouth. “Do you really think I’m alone, little Dragoon?”

Mara turned her head to the palace and realized too late that the Barians had been there much longer than she’d thought. Yuma’s eyes scanned the parapets. He counted about twenty archers. Through the gates, he could see another dozen men with swords in the palace courtyard.

“A trap.” Yuma felt a spike of terror at the uncertainty in Mara’s voice.

“It takes more than a pretty face to be a general,” Mizael breathed, his smile becoming more pronounced. “Did you really think I would so carelessly let it slip what our plans for Arclight were unless I hoped to draw you here? I really just expected Captain Kamishiro, but being the one to dispatch the Captain-Commander is… quite an honor.”

Yuma’s shaking hands tightened on his sword. Mara placed a hand to her stomach, and for a moment, Yuma worried she might be sick. He certainly was; the sight of the archers taking careful aim at their squad seized his breath and made his legs weak. But she let out a slow breath, licking her lips.

“Lieutenant,” she whispered. “I need you to go to Byron. Can you-”

“No need for that,” Mizael called out. “Here he is now.”

Yuma had never seen King Byron up close before, but both the Captain and the Captain-Commander described him as amiable and polite; a gentle statesman with a calm face. Yuma could only assume the narrowed eyes and wide grin on the king’s face as he stepped into the torchlight were signs that the Barians had done something terrible to him.

“Damn it,” Mara muttered. “We’re too late.”

“Good evening, Captain-Commander Simin,” the king said in a horribly cheerful voice. “Under what pretenses have you invaded my kingdom?”

_Invaded?_

“Your Majesty-”

Byron shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Can’t have that, can we? General Mizael, how many of these are yours?”

Mizael turned to the two figures accompanying Byron. The short one crossed his arms and shifted his weight from one foot to the other; the large one had his back to Mizael with his hands clenched. “A few of the swordsmen.”

“Well, I’m going to use them. If we’re in this together now, Arclight and Barian, you don’t object, surely?”

If Mizael did, he didn’t make it known, and Byron didn’t bother waiting for a reply. He lifted an arm.

“Archers, ready!”

Mara cast Mizael a disgusted look and flung herself back on Miryu. “Fall back! Quickly! Todoroki, cover us!”

Yuma scrambled on his horse as a pillar of fire sprang from the ground between the Arclight forces and Mara’s squad, incinerating a number of arrows. Yells filled the smoky air – angry, pained, jubilant, it was difficult to tell – but as he led his horse away from the palace, he saw a body lying on the ground, an arrow wedged in its throat.

His father had told him when he was younger that when you saw a friend die, the world seemed to stop around you. He hadn’t understood it then, but now he did. The yelling, the screams, the burning air – all seemed distorted, in a way; hazy, as though looking at the world through a glass of water.

He made to slide off his horse but a hand grabbed his arm and pulled him along. A voice spoke urgently to him, but he didn’t recognize it, nor did he know what was being said.

All he saw was his friend Hideyori, red hair matting in the mud beneath him, blood trickling from his parted lips. He and Yuma were sparring partners. Hideyori had been abysmal when they first met, but he learned well and had risen to be one of the better swordsmen in the unit. He joined the Astral Guard to raise some money for his farm, and he teased Yuma all the time about how Yuma grew up in the Astral Kingdom and didn’t even know how to milk a cow. He was going to show Yuma how to do it someday, he’d promised.

 _It’s not too hard, you know._ He had a friendly smile, and never swore or drank. A good man. A faithful man.

And now he was lying dead in the blood pouring from where an arrow had lodged in his throat.

Some of the shouting faded as his horse bounced beneath him. It was eternity, riding. The vision of Hideyori’s dead face, staring up at the night sky where his soul was going to rest, seared into his eyes. He would do well in the Astral World. He was a good person. He would be granted a high plane, certainly…

Yuma felt dizzy, and sick; whoever was holding his arm swore and yanked him upright. Had he been falling? His arm felt strange… His whole body…

“Damn it, Yuma, _look at me_!”

He turned his head and met Mara’s sharp eyes. Her fingers dug into his arm. “Yuma, speak. Say something.”

He realized after a moment that he was sitting on the ground. The sky was lightening in the east. Toward Arclight.

“Sunrise?” he mumbled blearily, and only then did he notice what had happened. “Oh gods-”

The broken shaft of an arrow stuck out of his arm, right above his elbow, but that was nothing compared to the spikes of unimaginable pain travelling suddenly through his arm. It was as if his very blood was boiling inside his veins, numbing all mobility. A strangled scream slipped from his throat and Mara gripped his waist.

_How did I not notice this pain for an entire night?_

“Shh, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine.” Mara’s voice shook as she gestured someone over. “Yuma, look at me, look at me. Say something.”

He turned his wide eyes to her. “Mara, where are we? How is it sunrise?”

“We’re about three hours from the Dragoon Shrine. We rode all night. You were… in a bad state. I’ve never…” Mara licked her lips. “Yuma, hold still, because this will probably hurt a hell of a lot.”

“What will-” He cut off with a scream as a hand gripped his arm and ripped the arrow out. Blood gushed from the wound as he screamed into Mara’s breastplate.

“Heal him, quickly.”

The boiling sensation in his blood cooled instantly, replaced by an icy torrent. The blood flow slowed and stopped and Yuma’s screams turned to gasps for breath and painful coughs as the Healer hastily tied off a bandage.

“There you go. You’ll be all right.” Mara nodded at the Healer, whose pallid face was streaked with tears. He teetered on his knees but dragged himself to his feet and staggered off toward another group of bleeding men.

Yuma’s hand clenched her wrist as she made to stand. “Captain, is this… is this war?”

She placed her other hand on his. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it is.”

He looked around him, at his bleeding comrades, many of whom rested on one another’s shoulders and gripped each other tightly. All of them had tears on their faces, and most of them were wounded in some way.

There had been forty of them.

Now there were sixteen.

Hideyori’s dead expression swam into Yuma’s mind again and he leaned over to throw up. Mara rubbed his back as he wiped a shaking hand across his mouth. “It’s hell.”

She nodded slowly. Her hand pulled away. “Yeah, it is. Get some sleep.”

—-

Yuma’s arm ached as he sat up. For a moment, he didn’t want to open his eyes. It would be so nice to pretend that he had dreamed the whole thing.

“Barians!”

The quiet camp woke; the sound of soldiers grabbing for their weapons and shouting, of arrows whistling through the air once more-

“Where’s Todoroki?” a voice roared.

“Here!” another voice screamed back. “He’s hit-”

“Yuma! Yuma, get up!” A pair of hands grabbed him under the arms and heaved him to his feet. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Mara. “Fight, Yuma! We can fight them. Go for the archers first.”

She sprinted into the trees and Yuma hazily reached for his sword in time for a hooded Barian to slash at him with a sword of his own.

_Swords… I can do that…_

Yuma parried the strike and he struggled to his feet. His legs were barely responsive. He needed to get into the trees; they shouldn’t be fighting, they should be heading for the Shrine…

 _The Barians can’t get within ten miles of the Shrine_.

They’d be safe there…

His body instinctively found its way into the forms he needed, and he easily kept the Barian at bay.

_They killed the Dragoons…_

He knocked the Barian off-balance, and it fell to the ground, sword flying out of its hand.

_They’re monsters._

He closed his eyes and thrust his sword into the Barian’s chest.

_Have you ever seen the life leave your enemy’s eyes?_

If he didn’t look into its eyes, it wouldn’t count, it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t haunt his dreams, it wouldn’t stain his soul. He wouldn’t remember it.

His eyes opened in time to realize that his now-dead adversary was wearing the insignia of the Arclight military.

It wasn’t a Barian at all.

He ripped the sword out of the man’s chest and stumbled back, retching against the smell of the blood in the air, the smell of the man’s blood he had just spilled.

He heard footsteps behind him and his arm mechanically moved to meet the intended strike. He couldn’t see; tears clouded his vision, but he parried, parried, parried,  _struck_ -

His body moved on its own, a puppet belonging to a sadistic puppeteer; his sword thirsted for blood as it struck like a snake, biting all in its path, sinking into soft human flesh and rough Barian flesh alike. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he had lost all control of his senses, was watching his hands kill while being completely unable to stop them.

Mara’s scream of rage pierced the air nearby, and his legs – when did they gain this strength? – carried him to her. An arrow pinned her cloak to a tree and a Barian – it was a Barian, with a disgusting mouthless face – sank a knife into her stomach, and she screamed again, this time in pain. When it saw Yuma, it turned to run.

_Not the Commander-_

He dropped his blood-stained sword and knelt by her side. She had saved him. He needed to save her, he needed to do-

“Yuma,” she gasped, “don’t let your guard d-”

The Barian turned from its flight and pulled out a bow, aiming an arrow at Mara once again. Yuma threw himself between Mara and the Barian, and the arrow pierced his shoulder.

It didn’t hurt, strangely.

He fumbled for his sword and staggered to his feet, ignoring the arrow in his shoulder, ignoring the lava flowing through his veins. The Barian’s eyes widened and it turned to run again.

It didn’t get far.

Yuma grabbed a thick log and hurled it at the Barian, catching it by the back of its knees. It fell forward and landed on its stomach, but it turned and took aim at Yuma again. Yuma’s boot came down on its hand.

Its eyes were filled with horror.

It was afraid to die.

“Burn,” someone said with Yuma’s voice, and his sword came down on it.

Once.

Twice.

It was dead now, but his sword’s insatiable thirst kept it striking.

Three.

Four.

Five.

He lost track.

—-

He helped Mara back on her horse. Only a handful of them remained as they rode into the ward around the Dragoon Shrine. Mara hunched over for the entire ride through the mountains, clutching her stomach, but she didn’t say a word. None of them did.

The Healer died as they entered the Astral Kingdom’s borders.

A few hours later, everyone’s wounds opened up again. They tried to stifle the blood, but that was all they could do.

Yuma didn’t remember most of the trek. His mind and body were separate entities. His mind screamed in agony, in fear, in horror.

_He cannot achieve the highest glory who takes another’s life in vengeance._

His body barely registered the blood trickling down his arm from his shoulder, where the second arrow had been removed hours ago.

He had tainted his father’s sword with the blood of Barians and humans. He had sought vengeance. Had killed in vengeance.

He feared his soul would never be forgiven. He feared it would never be mended.

—-

The only sound in the small stone chamber as Durbe snapped the journal shut was Yuma’s whimpering and Vector’s quiet giggles.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Durbe said softly, motioning for Mizael to follow him. His general cast him a strange look – a narrow-eyed, almost contemptuous look – and swept past Durbe into the hallway. Durbe lowered his eyes to the ground for a moment. He’d upset Mizael again; he should have remembered that the subject of Byron’s torture still bothered him. Mizael might not forgive him so readily this time.

“Why?”

Astral’s voice was barely loud enough to be heard over Yuma’s anguish and Akari’s empty reassurances. Durbe paused.

Did he really have a reason? Did he really have a reason to recount this story, other than that it gave Vector some kind of sadistic pleasure, and perhaps would lessen Vector’s insistence that he be able to have a crack at the boy?

“A reminder,” Durbe said finally.

“A reminder that a man ripped apart his soul to protect those he loved? A reminder that he failed them? Was this just to break his spirit?”

“Of course it was,” Durbe replied. “It was a reminder that even humans who pretend to be filled with a convoluted sense of  _justice_  and  _right_  are capable of being monsters.”

—-

Thomas was getting impatient with the Barians. They had promised that they would use Astral’s power to help their father. But after three days, no progress had been made.

 _He’ll crack sooner or later_ , their father had said cheerfully.  _There’s only so long Prince Astral will be able to go before watching his closest friend’s agony will finally break him._

The whole situation seemed to make Mihael uncomfortable; he sat by the fire in the library with a large book on his lap throughout that time, taking only tea and small meals, and seemingly reading nothing at all. He refused to talk to Thomas outside of a brief accusation that  _the lieutenant was going to kill me and you stood around doing nothing_.

He tried to argue that he knew the lieutenant wouldn’t kill anyone – the look in the young man’s eyes proved that much; the wide eyes and trembling parted lips, the unsteady sword arm – but Mihael wouldn’t listen. That was understandable. Part of Thomas had been curious, he had to admit. He wanted to see if the lieutenant would actually bring himself to do it. He would have stopped him from outright killing Mihael, of course, but pushing him to the limit… was satisfying.

Chris had been almost silent for three days; his thoughts were clearly not on the hapless prisoners in their basement, but on Kaito. Every time someone mentioned the Tenjo Kingdom, every time Chris looked at his soul gem, he gritted his teeth and gripped it, mouth twisting in pain. Every time their father came around, Chris hastily excused himself in a low mumble.

Durbe had seemed less concerned with Kaito these past few days – no wonder, given his preoccupation with the prince and his bodyguard – and when Chris demanded to know where Kaito was, brushed him off.  _We’re still looking for him, but it has been well over a week and at this point we’re just looking for his body._

Obviously, Thomas was the only one of his brothers who was eager to see progress with the prince, because that meant their father would be returned to normal and they could regain some sense of normalcy in their lives.

When he tried to bring this up to Chris that evening in the music lounge, his brother finally looked at him and snorted softly, straightening himself out on the settee. His hair was a ragged, unwashed mess and his clothes were wrinkled; Thomas was sure he hadn’t changed out of his nightclothes in days.

“Do you think the Barians will actually make good on their promise, Thomas?”

“Why wouldn’t they? Father was much easier to work with before they…” _Before they did whatever they did to him_. “Anyway, if Astral’s powers help him, the Barians might decide to leave him in charge of the kingdom.”

“A puppet state.”

Thomas jumped to his feet. “It’s better than sharing a palace with these _things_!”

Chris looked up at him, slightly red eyes half-closed. Had he been crying again? “These  _things_  are conquering the continent. We may as well get used to them being here.”

Chris’s resignation – highlighted in his lifeless eyes, in his slumped posture, and in his quiet voice – pissed him off to no end. Thomas grabbed him by the collar of his nightshirt, and ignoring the smell of his brother’s unwashed body, slapped him with his free hand. Chris blinked several times and his mouth opened slightly in surprise.

“What the  _hell_  is wrong with you?” Thomas hissed, giving him a shake for emphasis. “Ever since Kaito vanished, you’ve been acting like a-”

Suddenly, he knew.

He froze and released his hold on his brother’s collar, and Chris fell back on the settee, rubbing his neck while avoiding Thomas’s incredulous stare.

_Like a lovesick maid pining after a lover gone off to war._

“You and Kaito.”

Chris’s hand froze, and that was all Thomas needed.

“Oh my gods.”

It made sense now, all of it; Chris’s decade-long reluctance to get married, his frequent trips to the Tenjo Kingdom, Kaito’s frequent trips to Arclight, _everything_. All this time, he’d assumed Chris to be Kaito’s mentor, teaching him swordplay and politics, but clearly…

“Oh my  _gods_.” Thomas ran his fingers through his hair. “How could you do something so selfish and…  _stupid_?”

Chris wouldn’t look at him; his eyes were fixated on the floor and he rubbed his hands together like a child who had been caught sneaking around in the pantry after hours. And as Thomas had this thought, another very unpleasant thought occurred to him.

“How long did you think you were going to be able to keep this from Father?”

“I think he knows,” Chris whispered. “But it doesn’t matter now, does it? He’s… gone.”

“That’s not going to matter, you idiot,” Thomas snapped. “You broke custom _and_ the law. Do you honestly think that’s going to change anything?”

“If you keep quiet about it and I find a wife to uphold custom, it doesn’t have to matter.”

Thomas snorted. If Chris found a wife, he’d have to keep silent for the rest of his life that he’d taken another man as a lover – and not just any man, but the heir to a neighboring kingdom.

What a mess.

But before he could respond, Chris’s expression changed to one of terror, and he made to stand up.

“No, no, I think you should sit, Christopher. You too, Thomas.”

Their father stood in the doorway. Thomas hadn’t heard it open. “Ah… good evening, Father. Do you have news of-”

“Yuma Tsukumo has exhausted his usefulness, or so Lord Durbe thinks. He is slated to be publicly hanged in three days. A fitting reminder to anyone who wishes to rise up against our Barian friends, don’t you think?”

_Hanged…?_

They hadn’t publicly executed anyone in Arclight in nearly fifty years. Thomas sank to his chair and gripped the arm.

“What of… the prince and the women?”

Byron shrugged. “Prince Astral will be questioned until he finally gives in. It’s only a matter of time before he relents. The Healer is of use to Lord Durbe, but the other three women aren’t, so Lord Vector suggested tossing them in a cell until they die. But that’s not important.”

Thomas couldn’t think of anything less important than a public hanging in  _his_ kingdom, but Byron plowed right on without giving him a chance to respond. He turned his attention to his eldest son.

“I overheard some of your conversation, Christopher.”

Thomas’s eyes darted to his brother, whose face was pallid. Chris was in no state to defend himself, or to think up a lie to cover up what their father might have heard.

_Stupid man._

“Isn’t it wonderful, Father?” Thomas offered. “Christopher has finally decided to be wed. Our kingdom will soon have an heir.”

What might have been Byron’s attempt at a warm smile looked more like a leer as he turned to Chris. “Is that right? I did hope I hadn’t misheard the conversation… no, no, this is magnificent. Who is my new daughter to be?”

Chris shot Thomas an openly panicked look and Thomas cursed his luck. Chris was usually so calm and quick on his feet.

“The Tsukumo woman,” Thomas interjected.

He prayed for Chris to keep his face impassive. A look of disbelief flashed in Chris’s eyes but he mercifully composed himself well enough.

Byron squinted at him skeptically. “Have you even spoken to her?”

“No,” Chris said after a heartbeat’s hesitation. “But I have thought it over, and my union to a woman… from a different kingdom, the… the sister of a former enemy…”

He was losing steam. “It would show a union between the Astral and Arclight kingdoms, an abandonment of outdated customs of nobility, and a show of mercy for the remaining family members of a man who foolishly sided against our Barian allies,” Thomas said smoothly. “I was skeptical at first, but I think it might be effective, yes?”

Byron watched Chris’s face with narrowed eyes. Thomas held his breath. It was a stupid gamble, but if it worked…

Finally, Byron nodded. “Interesting choice, and I see your logic. I will discuss it with Lords Vector and Durbe.” He turned to leave. “I’m pleased to hear you’re sorting yourself out, Christopher.”

The door closed behind him and Thomas let out his breath. Chris was leaning against a pillow, breathing heavily.

"Thank you."

“If Kaito’s still alive,” Thomas said quietly, “you’re going to have to give him up now.”


	21. Linked By Blood

_Mizael walked into the nearly empty barracks at lunchtime. One figure lay on his stomach on a bed near the middle of the room, blood seeping through the bandages draped over his back as he gazed blankly at the bed next to him. Mizael stopped at the bed and paused for a brief moment before sitting on the edge tentatively, his back to the figure on the bed._

_They remained in silence for a few minutes before Mizael finally spoke. “You’re an idiot.”_

_“It stings a bit. Could you get the bandages wet to soothe it?”_

_“I’m serious, Durbe.”_

_“So am I.” With apparent effort, Durbe propped himself on his elbows and turned his head to look at Mizael. The two locked eyes for another moment before Mizael let out an impatient_ tsk _and stood again._

_“You’re never going to be an effective king if you refuse to let those who serve you take responsibility for their own actions.”_

_“When my actions affect those I serve, then I should take responsibility.”_

_“Letting yourself be publicly beaten for breaking curfew and lying about_ forcing me to go with you _is hardly noble, Durbe. You forget that I made an oath to keep you safe, something I can’t very well do when you pull stunts like this.”_

_“It really is starting to sting. Water would be nice.”_

_Mizael huffed and grabbed a bowl of water from the bedside table. Without prelude, he dumped it on Durbe, ignoring Durbe’s whimper as the cold water doused his head and back, and slammed the bowl back on the table before stalking off._

_“Mizael.”_

_Mizael paused and turned around to see Durbe gazing after him, shivering. “What?”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Why?”_

_“For thinking I could change our kingdom. I don’t deserve your loyalty.”_

_Wordlessly, Mizael walked back to the bed where Durbe lay propped up, shivering slightly under the wet bandages covering the lesions on his back, and slapped him across the face._

_Stunned, Durbe didn’t move as Mizael turned on his heel and stormed off again._

_“If you dare suggest to me again that I committed treason for a senseless coward, I will do much more than slap you, Durbe.”_

_The door slammed behind him, leaving behind a dazed Durbe with a stinging cheek and freezing water dripping into his eyes._

—-

For nearly four hours, Durbe tried to talk to him, but Mizael kept his arms crossed, his expression sullen, and Durbe finally gave up and left him. He was sulking; he knew that. It was childish, disgustingly  _human_  behavior, but he had a hard time bringing himself to care. It carried on into the early hours of the following morning, and he barely slept.

He had read Captain Kamishiro’s journal multiple times since it came into their possession with no problems, but hearing Durbe recount that night in his soft, emotionless voice triggered memories Mizael had long since tried to bury.

Tsukumo’s account wasn’t the same as he remembered it, of course. To Tsukumo, and by association, Captain Kamishiro, Mizael’s actions that night were void of feeling or remorse. But Mizael’s memories of that night were different.

Durbe knew that, but he didn’t seem to care.

“How long are you going to refuse to speak to me?”

The sun had not yet risen; Durbe rarely came by before dawn without a good reason. Without turning to the door from his prone position on the bed, Mizael smelled the bitter coffee, a luxury Durbe had grown dependent on, and knew he would find the lord in his human form. Barians had no need or means for consuming the drink.

Mizael remained silent. Durbe sighed.

The soft  _clink_  of Durbe’s mug on Mizael’s end table preceded the mattress sinking, and Mizael turned deeper into his pillow.

“If I’d known it was going to affect you like that, I would have sent you into the hall with Alit and Gilag.”

“How could the memory of torturing a man to insanity  _not_ affect me, Durbe?” Mizael pulled himself from his pillow and turned at last to Durbe, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to Mizael. True to Mizael’s observations, Durbe sat in his human form. “For that matter, how did you think I would feel about playing a major role in taking a good father from his children?”

Durbe turned and gazed at him for a moment. There was a strange look in his eyes; a combination of pity and resentment, and he folded his hands with more rigidity than usual. “Empathy for humans; how unusual of you. Do you feel a kinship with the fatherless children, Mizael? Or, should I say, the abandoned children?”

Mizael clenched his fists and sat up. The overwhelming urge to grab Durbe by his pretentious scarf, to slam him against the wall and vent his frustrations overcame him –  _how dare he_  – but he forced it down. The last thing he needed was to hurt the only one with the authority to keep him out of a cell. He contented himself with gripping Durbe’s wrist. “There was no  _need_. Ordering me to do as Vector commanded was a mistake.” He squeezed his eyes shut and relinquished his grip on Durbe. “They think we’re going to _cure_  him. You should hear them talk about it when they don’t know I’m listening.  _Trust the Barians, Mihael. They’ll save Father. If I give myself to them, they’ll return the favor and return Father to normal._ ” He laughed bitterly. What fools they were.

Durbe looked away again. Mizael couldn’t tell what was going through Durbe’s mind. Part of him yearned for Durbe to beg his forgiveness, but he knew Durbe was too proud for that.  _A king should never have to repent._

“It was for the best,” Durbe said finally, rubbing his wrist. Mizael must have gripped too hard; Durbe was bleeding.

“The best for whom, Durbe? For all of humanity? For the Barian Empire? Or for you?”

“You’re acting like a spoiled child.”

Mizael laughed again. “Good! Isn’t that what I am? The fatherless Barian.” He held a hand to the asymmetrical wing of his face. “Cursed with a broken body, a broken soul. An unwanted child.”

“You’re not unwanted.” Durbe’s voice quivered.

“I was such a shame to my parents that they rejected me. Imagine that, Durbe! Sacrificing part of your own soul to bring forth life, only to reject it.”

“It doesn’t matter now, Mizael. You’ve done great things with your life despite-”

“I’ve committed  _treason_!” Mizael hissed. He pulled himself to the edge of the bed next to Durbe. Durbe’s tired human face turned to him. “ _Treason_ , Durbe! All for your sake! I’ve killed  _dozens_  in your name. In the name of persuasion, I joined you in ripping out souls and crafting a madman out of a once-peaceful king. And I don’t understand fully  _why_.”

Durbe remained impassive throughout Mizael’s rant. It infuriated Mizael, how Durbe could be so  _calm_  all the time; it infuriated him how Durbe could keep secrets from him still, even after all these years and everything Mizael had done for him.

Durbe closed his eyes. “What do you want me to tell you, Mizael?” He kept his tone soft.

“I want you to tell me what it’s all for. What is your endgame, Durbe? I kept quiet while we worked to make you a lord. I’ve kept quiet since our conquest began. I deserve to know what’s next.”

For the first time, Durbe hesitated. “I… am afraid you won’t understand.”

He may as well have slapped Mizael, however gentle his words. He wouldn’t _understand_? “You don’t trust me to know? I’ve thrown in my lot with you. I’ve sacrificed myself to you. The least you could do is trust me, unless thirty years of loyalty means nothing to you.”

“Don’t be foolish. Your loyalty means everything to me.” Durbe reached across Mizael for his coffee. Mizael shoved his arm away.

“I feel like a faithful tool, Durbe. I build and destroy by your hands, never asking questions about what you’re building. You cherish my usefulness. But when I’m worn thin and ineffective, you’ll toss me aside.”

Perhaps he wished Durbe would get defensive, would raise his voice and deride him –  _you fool; how could you ever assume that I see you as nothing more than a tool?_ – but he didn’t expect Durbe’s gaze to fall to the floor and his eyes fill with tears.

Mizael had only ever seen Durbe cry once, during their days as recruits in the Barian military. Filled with youthful invincibility and carrying their naïve dreams for a better future for their kingdom, they often escaped the camp late at night to research in the library. Durbe learned everything he knew about politics from these ventures; he admitted to being from a small, unlearned village on the edge of the Waste, far removed from great libraries and unable to study history and war. Durbe treasured the library at Baria.

But one night, they were caught, and Durbe lied to save Mizael from punishment. They tied Durbe to a post, stripped him, and beat him until his thick skin hung in tatters on his back.

It dissuaded Durbe from returning to the library, but at that point, he had read enough to know what he wanted to do.

He cried not from physical pain this time, but from the fear that he had hurt Mizael. At least, Mizael thought so. He wanted to believe that Durbe felt remorse for keeping secrets for so long. He wanted Durbe to cry, wanted him to feel the same pain Mizael felt when Durbe lied to him, used him.

“I understand now,” Durbe whispered, rubbing a few stray tears from his cheek. “You’re scared I’ll abandon you in the end. Like everyone else did.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Yes you are.” Durbe slid from the bed and brushed his morning robes. With the heel of his hand, he wiped the remaining tears from his eyes. “I expect you at breakfast in one hour. Lord Christopher has news for us, or so I understand. Please arrive in your formal clothing and in your human form.”

Mizael watched him cross the small room, listened to his wispy slippers sidle across the cherry floor. “Are you going to answer me? Or are you going to continue to leave me behind while you continue to rise?”

Durbe paused with his hand on the doorknob. “You’ve waited this long,” he murmured. “Just wait a few more hours.”

—-

Jasmine-scented steam filled the spacious bath chamber, clouding the gold-framed mirrors and the windows shut against the morning frost. The steaming water was paradise for Akari’s exhausted, stiff body, but she pulled her legs close to her naked chest as a Healer poured a copious amount of hair potion over Akari’s head. Three weeks without a bath had left Akari’s scalp itching and like straw, and her own stench repulsed her. She didn’t know what was going on; she had been dragged from her cell early in the morning and brought to this chamber, where the Healer went to work cleaning Akari’s hair and body. The Healer didn’t seem to know much more than she did.

“Lady Akari, if you wouldn’t mind moving your arms away from your chest…?”

Akari tightened them. “Give me the cloth and I will wash myself.”

The Healer sighed. “I have tended to women before, Lady Akari, and a woman’s body is not foreign to me.” She handed over the rag anyway and Akari scrubbed the dirt and sweat from her underarms and chest. The Healer turned to a pile of soft towels. “When you’re finished, I’m to escort you to a set of chambers where you will be given-”

“Why?”

“Pardon?”

Akari pulled herself to the side of the tub. “Why are the Barians doing this? What’s the point of cleaning me?”

The Healer didn’t respond at first, and though Akari couldn’t see her face, she could see her shoulders shaking. “Your brother…” She trailed off and ran her hands over her face. “You might have to go to his execution tomorrow.”

Akari gripped the sides of the tub to keep steady, but to no avail. The Healer knelt next to the tub and pulled Akari’s upper body back out of the water, holding Akari’s dripping body to her chest as Akari’s anguished wails filled the chamber.  _Execution?_

“He’s just… a child…”

The Healer gently pulled Akari from the tub and wrapped her in a towel. “He’s a man, Lady Akari. He made oaths to lay down his life for his-”

“What good is an oath like that?” Akari screamed, pulling away. The Healer’s soft brown eyes widened at Akari’s outburst. “What good does it to do die for your kingdom? He’s an idiot and this is what he gets-” Her voice gave out on her and she buried her face in her towel.  _Why did he have to be so stupid? Why didn’t he stay at home?_

Durbe’s recounting of Yuma’s time in hell terrified Akari. The thought of her baby brother – so innocent, so naïve – taking lives in vengeance, committing the ultimate sin…

The Healer squeezed tears from her eyes and half-dragged Akari across the cold floor to the adjoining bedchamber. “You can’t mean that. He’s your brother.”

Akari shook her head. She had nothing more to say.

—-

Vector was already seated when Chris and his brothers arrived in the dining hall for breakfast. Mihael had helped Chris braid back his hair, which now fell loosely over his shoulder, and all three wore their formal robes.

 _It’s a historic occasion_ , their father had insisted.  _You should all look your best._

Thomas cast Vector a barely concealed look of disgust as they sat. Vector lounged back in his chair, plate and glass upside-down, still very much in his Barian form.

 _I thought Father told them to come in their human forms_. It hit him then that he had never seen Vector’s human form before. Was there a reason for that?

“You three look dashing this morning,” Vector said conversationally, twirling a fork with a clawed hand as he deliberately ignored Thomas’s snort.

“Did Lord Durbe neglect to inform you that this was a celebratory breakfast feast?” Chris said, keeping his tone level.

Vector glanced upward thoughtfully. “Hmm. Maybe. I don’t remember most of what Durbe says, to be honest.”

“That explains a great deal.”

Chris turned to see Durbe, dressed in his pristine white dress robes, stride through the door with Mizael at his heels. Alit, wearing red robes with black embroidery, and Gilag, with his green robes hemmed in silver, brought up the rear. It was always strange to see the Barians in their human forms – Mizael and Durbe with their slender bodies, handsome, dark-skinned Alit, and gruff Gilag with a body far too brawny to belong to a normal human. They looked so young, made more jarring by the fact that Chris knew each of them had lived for half a century.

Durbe took a seat next to Vector, and his generals occupied the seats next to him. “I notice that you wish to defy Arclight custom when invited to drink with the royal family?”

Vector stretched. “I’ve got stuff to do today. No time for drinking.”

Chris caught Mizael rolling his eyes. Next to the general, Alit shoved a handful of granola from a bowl on the table into his mouth. “Is Father on his way, Lord Durbe?”

Durbe straightened his cutlery. “Yes, I believe he went to get someone.”

“And here she is!” Byron’s voice boomed from the door.

Chris and his brothers stood respectfully as Byron dragged a woman into the room behind him. It was only the third time Chris had seen her, and she was infinitely more presentable now than she had been before. Her red hair, which had hung limp and filthy around her shoulders, was now washed and pulled into a braid, and her simple red dress hung loosely from her emaciated frame.

“Say hello to the future Queen of Arclight!” Byron announced, gesturing at her.

His father clearly hadn’t told her what was going on, judging by the way the color drained from her face, nor had he told the Barians, who each wore a look of varying incredulity. Chris exchanged a weary glance with Thomas. He was grateful for his brother, who helped him prepare remarks for this breakfast. It had been difficult; Chris found his throat constrict each time he thought of what might have become of Kaito. Part of him – the childish part of him, doubtless – wished Kaito was still alive, but Thomas was right; he couldn’t have Kaito any longer.

Vector composed himself first. “What?”

Chris approached the shaking woman, who had tears streaming from wide, terrified eyes. He held out his hand. When she shook her head, he grabbed hers anyway. “My lady, I am Christopher Arclight, eldest son of Byron Arclight. We are to be-” His voice caught in his throat. Thomas raised an eyebrow at him. The look in his brother’s eyes was clear –  _think of something else and get through it_. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I have chosen Akari Tsukumo to be my… my wife… in the hopes of achieving unity between Astral Kingdom and Arclight Kingdom.” The words came easier, now. “It is my prayer that our union will cast out any ill-feelings between our two kingdoms brought on by your brother’s poor associations and decisions.”

The tension in the hall was so thick that Chris could practically touch it. Vector gripped his fork so tightly that it bent; he gazed at Chris through eyes squinted in disbelief. Vector was easy to read. So was Mizael, who wore an almost permanently annoyed scowl each time Chris saw him in his human form. The scowl had twisted almost into a grimace. Alit had an eyebrow raised and his nose scrunched, and Gilag stared down at his plate as though hoping for something to appear there so he didn’t have to think about the situation.

But Durbe… Durbe’s face was always hard to read. Apart from his initial eyebrow raise, his face was impassive, his eyes set in that serious way Durbe always wore, mouth set in a straight line. It was impossible to tell what Durbe thought of the situation, and that worried Chris.

It was Durbe who replied first, holding up his empty glass. “I think congratulations are in order, Lord Christopher. This is… truly a grand day.” He glanced at his generals, who sighed almost in unison and muttered _congratulations_  as they lifted their empty glasses. A servant hurried over with a bottle of wine and poured some into each glass. Durbe waited until the brothers and Byron had been served to lift the glass in a toast. “To Lord Christopher and Lady Akari. May their union bring… peace to the kingdoms and unite our land.” He took a sip, and the others followed, Gilag and Alit echoing Durbe’s sentiment before sipping at their glasses. Mizael muttered something indistinct and drained his glass.

How uncharacteristic of General Mizael to drink any wine at all without Durbe nudging him into it.

Chris pulled Akari along. She resisted and tried to tug away from his grip; he held her hand firmly and leaned close to her. “Please do not make a scene, Lady Akari.”

“I want to see my brother,” she said loudly.

“This is not the time.”

“This is the perfect time. I heard he’s going to be executed tomorrow. I demand to see him.”

Vector giggled. “Oh? They told you, then?”

She seemed to notice Vector’s presence for the first time, and pulled behind Chris. Her hand tightened in his as Vector stood.

“I’m tired of the formalities, so before you all start getting drunk, I think I’d like to leave.” His eyes scrunched up into his bizarre, mouthless smile. “It’s going to be an exciting day tomorrow.”

“On what grounds is he to be executed?” Akari burst out.

Vector shrugged. “Treason, of course.”

Akari spat on the ground. “Treason to you, you demon?”

The humor evaporated from Vector’s face as he took a furious step around the table. Durbe’s hand shot out and grabbed Vector’s wrist. “You don’t speak to me like that, you filthy human!”

“Vector, sit down,” Durbe muttered.

“I’m a lord!” Vector wrenched his hand free. “A lord! And this disgusting piece of filth just-”

“This  _disgusting piece of filth_  is the future heiress to the Arclight throne,” Durbe interrupted. “Either sit down and shut up or leave us and do whatever it is you deem more important.”

Vector glared down at Durbe for a moment before turning on his heel and vanishing. Durbe pinched the bridge of his nose and whispered something under his breath. Given the two lords’ relationship, Chris could only assume it was something uncharacteristically impolite of Durbe.

A long silence followed. Durbe finally stood. “Please forgive Lord Vector, Your Majesty.”

Byron waved a dismissive hand. “I can hardly blame him.” He gave Chris a piercing stare. “My son should better control his future wife.”

Chris placed his hand over Akari’s mouth before she could retort. She grabbed at his hand and he leaned his face next to her ear. “Calm yourself and this will be much easier for the both of us.” He straightened up as her shoulders slumped. “I will have a talk with her. Perhaps it’s best that we take our leave.”

“So soon?” Byron tilted his head. “You won’t even stay for the festivities?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Shame.” Byron grabbed Akari’s trembling hand and kissed it. “Do be good to my son, won’t you? And hold off taking him in bed until you’re married, won’t you?”

Thomas snorted again, this time with laughter. Chris grimaced. “Father, please.”

Byron wagged his finger at Chris. “Now, now, I just want to ensure that you keep to the letter of the law and refrain from any… untoward behavior outside of marriage.”

Chris’s heart skipped a beat and Thomas’s laugh cut off abruptly. If anything could have cemented his fear that his father knew about his relationship with Kaito, the tiny smile on his face was it. Chris licked his dry lips. “Of course.” He flinched as his father clapped him on the shoulder.

“What a dutiful son. Well, if we’re all abandoning the festivities, I suppose I may as well go talk to the seamstresses. If they get to it now, they can have a wonderful wedding dress prepared by tomorrow morning.”

The half-empty glass of wine slipped from Chris’s hand, shattering on the marble floor. “Tomorrow morning?”

“Of course.” Byron smiled. It held no warmth, and Chris wished desperately for the days when his father’s smile was reassuring and not frightening. “The public will be on the grounds already for the execution. What better way to lift their spirits after watching Yuma Tsukumo’s neck break than to witness the union of two kingdoms?” He glanced at the glass on the floor and ignored Akari’s whimpering. “You should clean that up.” He strode out without another word, door slamming behind him.

“Oh gods!” Akari wailed, sliding to the ground. Chris hesitated a moment before kneeling next to her, patting her back as her body heaved with loud sobs over her brother’s fate. He glanced up at Thomas, whose mouth had dropped open, and at Mihael’s pale face. Even Durbe’s stoicism was gone. He looked troubled, and if the Barian lord was troubled, so was Chris.

—-

Droite crossed her arms, gazing around the unusually crowded inn commons while Gauche haggled for cheaper drinks. She had been to many roadside taverns and inns, and none of them were full on any given night, especially since they were less than ten miles from the palace. There were many inns in the city that were cleaner and probably cheaper than this one.

“…ever be that much, you swindling-”

She nudged Gauche. “Something’s wrong here.”

“I’ll say,” he muttered. “This ass is trying to charge me four times what this drink is worth.”

She leaned across the counter and slammed a knife between the innkeeper’s fingers. The man pulled his hand back with a quickly stifled scream that drew several pairs of eyes to the counter. “We’ll take two, and we will pay one pomma.”

The innkeeper gave her a terrified whimper and slammed the mugs on the counter before vanishing quickly to the backroom. Droite tossed the tiny silver coin on the table and grabbed her mug.

“Don’t grin like that, it makes you look ridiculous.” She was acutely aware of several people watching them closely now. They’d have to watch themselves.

Not that she doubted she could take care of herself.

“I can’t help it. You scared him shitless.”

They sat at the only vacant table in the room, somewhere near the middle. Droite hated leaving her back to anyone, but Gauche sat across from her and she knew he’d keep an eye out.

“Hey, you.”

A neighboring man glanced up at Gauche. “What?”

“What’s going on in town today?”

A man a few tables over laughed. “How could you not have heard? There’s a public hanging in the morning.”

Droite paused mid-sip. “A hanging? For whom?”

The first man shrugged. “Some upstart terrorist from Astral. I heard he tried to kill the emperor.”

“Too bad he didn’t succeed, eh?” another man chimed in.

“Shut the hell up! You want  _them_  to hear you talking that kind of shit about them?”

Droite raised her eyebrows at Gauche. He seemed to get her meaning and nodded. “In the morning, you say? At the palace?”

“Where else? Lord Durbe had announcements posted all over the kingdom early yesterday morning.”

“And everyone dropped everything to come watch a poor man they don’t even know die?” Droite said tonelessly.

“Not much else to do anymore, is there? Ain’t been a public execution since my grandaddy’s time. Maybe we’re a bit curious. No harm in that, eh?”

Droite pushed her half-empty mug away and stood. Gauche scowled at his mostly-empty mug and followed suit. She hated wasting perfectly good alcohol, especially the night before a mission, but…

If this man slated to be executed was the same man the Dragoon twins wouldn’t shut up about, perhaps…

“A rescue mission?” Gauche muttered as they hurried back to camp.

“That Dragoon man won’t hesitate. That’s what he’s going there for.”

“And in the confusion of an execution gone awry…”

_The perfect diversion._

—-

“Aren’t you going to wash?”

“I’ll wait.”

“You’re acting as though I’ve never seen you bathe before.” Rio waded through the stream and leaned on the bank, watching her brother. With Gauche and Droite gone for a few hours, Kaito muttered that he  _felt disgusting_ and headed a quarter of a mile upstream to bathe, ignoring Ryoga’s helpful comments that he  _looked_  disgusting too, and that perhaps he should consider returning to Tenjo to get pampered. Over the past few days, Ryoga had to endure Kaito’s constant jabs at their  _half-breed blood_ and Anna’s frequent reminders that they were thieves and murderers, and that she was going along with them only because she believed they were going to kill her to keep her quiet.

It was very tiring.

“Are you worried that Anna might see you?” Rio went on slyly, folding her arms in front of her chest. “I think she’s out of sight, if that’s the problem.”

“Whether or not that whiny woman sees me naked is the least of my concerns. We’re in Barian territory, and what does concern me is a  _Barian_ seeing me naked.”

Through the dim moonlight, Ryoga clearly saw her roll her eyes. She shivered involuntarily; though the spring night was warm, the water was still very cold. “Whatever. Is something actually bothering you, dear Brother, or are you just being sullen for no reason?”

He glanced up, where wispy clouds muted the stars. He enjoyed stargazing; looking at the different shapes against the black canvas of the universe beyond fascinated him. He had taught Yuma about constellations. Yuma had enjoyed it, he thought. He wondered again whether he was too late to save Yuma. “I had a talk with Kaito a few nights ago.”

“Oh? You actually had a  _civil conversation_ with Kaito?”

“I’m trying to be serious, Rio.”

She hoisted herself onto the side of the bank and reached for a blanket to dry herself with. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “Whatever.” He looked down at his gloved hands. This was the last conversation he ever envisioned having with Rio, but despite his reservations, despite the…  _wrongness_  of it all, he had to have it, had to exhaust all avenues. He waited to continue until she began dressing. “I just… it reminded me of something. That it’s just you and… and me.”

She paused in the middle of pulling her armor back on. Her eyebrows shot up, and he thought she knew exactly where he was going with this.

“We’ve been alone for a decade, Ryoga,” she murmured. “Surely  _that_  fact, at least, hasn’t escaped your notice all these years.”

“Mara and I…” He swallowed. His hands clenched on his knees, and Rio reached over and firmly grabbed his hand.

“Don’t you even think about it, Ryoga. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t love her, Rio.”

“I know you didn’t.”

He turned to meet her gaze. Her boots were half-laced and her vest hung loosely from her chest, but she didn’t seem to care. “It was duty.”

“Ryoga-”

He clamped his hand on her wrist. She clenched her fist and tugged, to no avail. “Is it still our duty, Rio?”

His voice was pleading, weak, and he hated it but he had to ask. He had to know. He needed her reassurance. He had prayed and meditated for too long with no answer.

He could pinpoint the exact moment she figured out what he was trying to say. Pity and despair filled her face. Fear. Most frighteningly, a quiet understanding. They had grown up with the same laws and customs seared into their minds from the time they could talk.  _Propagate the race. Keep the race alive, at all costs. For we are the chosen children of the gods._

“We’re blood, Ryoga,” she whispered, clutching his wrist with her free hand.

“The last drops of blood run through our veins.”

“And the last drops of blood will dry up when our bodies return to the earth.” She finally managed to pry her hand free. “We’ve sacrificed enough. Let the gods deal with it now.” She climbed to her feet and turned her back on him, looking to the other side of the stream bank at the sparse cottonwoods and sagebrush. This was the last vestige of life before crossing over to the Waste, half a day’s journey from where they were. But they weren’t there to go to the Waste. Not yet. “You should bathe now.”

“I will, but… Rio.”

She finished lacing up her vest. “What?”

Ryoga looked at his hands again.  _What does Yuma Tsukumo mean to you?_

He’d thought of little else since Kaito asked it.

He was scared to know the answer.

“What if we do it? What if the prince is saved? What if Yuma…” He couldn’t finish.

The look of pity returned. She was his twin. She knew him almost as well as he knew himself. Maybe better, sometimes. “How important is your duty to a dead clan, Ryoga?”

She headed back into camp. Ryoga ran his hands over his face, feeling the familiar guilt, humiliation, and fear – fear of himself, fear of his duty, fear for his race – and most of all, the shame for his overwhelming longing to see Yuma’s childish smile again.

—-

The Barians allowed Yuma to share a cell with Astral for his last night.  _As a request from Lord Christopher_ , Alit had said tonelessly. Astral wondered at this, but didn’t question it. Yuma had barely reacted to Durbe’s last two hours of interrogation, and Durbe eventually grew bored with Yuma’s lack of response. Byron returned not long after to tell Yuma that a public execution awaited him. A hanging.

They huddled in the corner, Yuma with his arms around Astral’s waist, burying his head into Astral’s bony shoulder. Astral held him close and gripped his hand. He prayed quietly for Yuma to receive peace and forgiveness in the life to come, hoping to elicit a response from the broken man. None came.

Astral hesitated before placing his lips to Yuma’s forehead. “No matter what awaits you,” he whispered, “I will be forever grateful to you. For everything you have given to protect me.”

Yuma pressed his face harder into Astral’s shoulder. Astral felt Yuma’s warm tears soak through his robes.

It was no wonder Yuma feared to die.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway and Yuma’s arms tightened. It couldn’t be morning already…?

Astral winced against the torchlight flooding the cell. Chris Arclight stood in the hall, next to a woman in a red dress – Yuma’s sister – who practically threw herself at her brother. Astral met Chris’s gaze for a moment before the cell door closed. Chris didn’t move; Astral couldn’t hear any retreating footsteps. A temporary arrangement, then.

They sat there, the three of them, arms awkwardly wrapped around one another. Astral had never met Akari before his imprisonment. But her face, her eyes, her sorrow mirrored her brother’s so exactly that he knew she needed comfort as much as Yuma did.

He was, after all, her only brother.

She finally seemed to realize that she had clawed her hand into Astral’s shoulder and pulled away.

“I’m… so sorry, my prince.”

“You have no need to apologize,” Astral murmured. “I am no longer a prince.”

She shook her head frantically. “Why are they taking my brother from me? Why would they… what do they have to gain?” Each word came out in a broken sob until tears streamed from her eyes. “He did nothing wrong. He’s…”

“I failed.”

Astral tightened his grip on Yuma’s hand while Akari ran her fingers through Yuma’s hair. “Yuma, you did your best. You did more than anyone could have.”

A sob punctuated Yuma’s humorless laugh. “It wasn’t enough.”

“There was nothing more you could have done,” Akari whispered. “You swore to… to give up your life for your kingdom.”

Yuma closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “I suppose I did.” He reached up and touched Astral’s wet face. “I wish… I could have seen Ryoga again.”

Astral’s eyes flickered to Akari, whose face crumpled as she watched her brother’s face melt into a sad smile. “He would have liked that.”

“If you see him… tell him that I pray we…” He gave a shuddering sigh, but Astral understood. Gods, but did he understand. “Sis, what’s going to happen to you?”

She squeezed the tears from her eyes. “They’re letting me live.”

“Good.” Astral’s heart broke at the contentment in Yuma’s face. He was preparing to die. He was coming to grips with it.

And Astral wasn’t.

He couldn’t.

“What about Gran?”

“She’s fine, too. They’re taking… care of us.”

“I’m so glad.”

Yuma closed his eyes once more, taking him to his earthly dreams one last time.

—-

Kaito tossed a stick in the fire. There wasn’t any need for it; the fire was doing just fine. But he was feeling antsy. They were maybe six hours from the palace now, and they hadn’t encountered a single Barian. They had seen them, of course, across the river, in the distance. They’d navigated unnoticed around the lake and followed the scrubby grasslands along the river, keeping hidden in the shade of the towering cottonwoods. They were even ahead of schedule; they would reach the palace before sunrise if they started out again soon. The assassins assured him that they would be gone only for a short time, enough to gather information about the state of things in the kingdom. Kaito had been gone for long enough that he expected the Barians to have done something drastic. Durbe was ruthlessly efficient in that regard.

He hated it when things went too well. It was a sign that things were about to fall to pieces.

Anna came back from her bath first, muttering about how cold it was as she sat entirely too close to the fire. The Dragoons were gone longer; Rio returned to camp looking worried, her lips pressed thin and her eyebrows furrowed. They sat in silence for nearly a quarter of an hour before Ryoga arrived, looking much the same as his sister. He sat across the fire from her, between Kaito and Anna, and Kaito raised his eyebrow.

 _They must have fought about something_. The twins normally refused to leave each other’s side, especially around Kaito.

“We’ll leave when the… other two get back.”

Ryoga nodded stiffly and picked up his water pouch. “How exactly are we going to get into the palace?”

He and Chris had explored every inch of that palace looking for secret places to steal kisses. He felt a pang in his chest at the thought. “I know a few back ways in. It shouldn’t be difficult.” He ran his fingers over his heart. The swelling had almost vanished now. He didn’t know what had done it – perhaps Droite’s herbs and questionable medicinal practice of  _bleeding out_  – but he didn’t care. He felt better than he had since… that day. Physically, anyway. He needed to get Astral out of Arclight and back to his brother. He’d deal with the Barians after Haruto’s illness was cured.

“And you’re not concerned in the slightest that there are at least four powerful Barians that live in the palace?” Rio said skeptically. “I doubt the four of us can take them together, as much as I hate to say it.”

“Excuse me,” Anna interrupted, “but the  _four_ of us?”

“You don’t really have a choice in the matter at this point,” Ryoga growled over his water pouch.

Anna cast a disgusted look at him. “I never wanted to get mixed up with any of you. Two murderers for hire, a renegade prince, and two wanted fugitives? No thank you.”

Kaito opened his mouth to reply but a barely audible rustle in the sagebrush beyond the cottonwoods caught his attention. His hand was on his sword as he turned-

“It’s just us. We’ve gotta go. Now.” Gauche kicked dirt onto the small fire, which smoked violently as it was choked out.

“What’s going on?” Anna demanded.

The Dragoons slung their packs over their shoulders. Rio watched Gauche with narrowed eyes.

Droite turned her gaze to Ryoga. “There’s a public execution in seven hours.”

“A public execution?” Kaito demanded.  _Impossible._ There hadn’t been a public execution in decades. It had to be an enormous political statement, whoever it was. His chest clenched. Perhaps one of the Arclight brothers…? “Whose?”

“We think it’s your friend,” Droite said to Ryoga in a dangerously quiet voice.

Kaito’s first reaction was relief; it wasn’t Chris, then.

But Ryoga’s lips parted as his hands wrung his lance, and Kaito could practically hear the Dragoon’s heart shatter.


	22. Reunion

Purple and black clouds to the north rumbled and flashed with lightning as they rolled closer to Arclight, the precursor to some great unfolding tragedy. Haruto stood at the window and watched the clouds continue on. There would be no rain; these clouds were omens, not meant to bring water to the forests and fields full of sprouting crops.

How long had it been since his brother left? Two weeks? Three? He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

Haruto knew his brother lived. Where he was… was another story.

“Haruto, is something wrong?”

Faker had tried this entire time to get Haruto away from the window, to return to his studies and eat and sleep. But Haruto had no desire to do so. Kaito had promised, hadn’t he? That he would return soon? That he would find some way to make Haruto better, that he would never bow to the Barians?

“He lied to me.”

Anger bubbled up inside Haruto. His blood was on fire; his fingernails dug into the flesh on the palms of his hands as his vision swam. He barely heard Faker’s voice, barely registered Faker grabbing him and releasing him in quick succession; he barely felt the flames lick his body – were they real? were they an illusion? – and he barely noticed the room crumbling around him.

—-

When Kaito slid the door open a crack – just enough to see into the mercifully dimly lit cell hallway – he knew they had barely made it in time. Three Barians stood outside a cell a short way down the narrow hall as a fourth, very familiar Barian dragged a man out of the cell. Kaito heard a voice pleading inside the cell before Gilag slammed the door and motioned for the three with him to follow.

“That was Prince Astral’s voice,” Ryoga breathed, hovering entirely too close to Kaito in his attempt to see through the crack.  He tried to push past Kaito into the hall. “Is Yuma-”

Kaito pushed him back. Either the Dragoon had no concept of personal space or he was even more scared than Kaito thought he was. “We can’t just burst in there, you idiot. That’s a Barian general.”

“Just one?”

The way Ryoga clenched his jaw, the way he gripped his lance, and the sudden flash of fury in his eyes forced Kaito to remember that the Dragoons had once been a race of powerful warriors, hellbent on defeating the Barians.

He opened his mouth, intending to try to convince Ryoga not to do exactly what he was getting ready to do, but it was to no avail.

Ryoga elbowed past him, slid open the door, and darted after the Barians on the balls of his feet to muffle his footsteps. Kaito swore under his breath and hesitated, several thoughts clamoring for attention in his mind.

A Dragoon could probably defeat four Barians without trouble, if they were average Barians. Lords and generals had special skills. They were in their positions for many reasons, and Gilag was hardly an unskilled Barian warrior. And to add to Ryoga’s difficulty, they had Ryoga’s friend with them. Would Ryoga hold back if the alternative was accidentally hurting his friend? He wouldn’t stand a chance.

But if Gilag saw Kaito and Ryoga together…

_Are you suggesting we were destined to fight the Barians together?_

“You stupid, stupid man,” Kaito hissed before following him out.

Ahead of him, Ryoga had reached the Barians, aiming his lance at Gilag’s back. Gilag’s shoulders stiffened and Kaito knew that at the angle Ryoga was aiming, if Gilag turned to his left…

Sure enough, Gilag turned, dragging the man with him by the arm, where he was positioned directly between the tip of Ryoga’s lance and Gilag’s chest.

It was exactly what Kaito knew was going to happen, and he couldn’t understand how Ryoga didn’t see it coming.

A soft name escaped Ryoga’s lips –  _Yuma_  – and he repositioned his lance at the last second, barely missing impaling Gilag’s human shield. But the sudden change in trajectory threw off his balance; with a sword, he might have been able to recover quickly enough to block the intended blows of two of the accompanying Barians. With his heavier lance, however…

_Damn useless man._

Kaito drew his sword, feeling the familiar palpitations in his chest and the warmth in his hand as he threw himself between Ryoga and the Barians, parrying their strikes with ease. It gave Ryoga just enough time to regain his composure and he thrust his lance into the nearest Barian’s neck.

It felt like time had stopped as Kaito watched the Barian fall back, agonizingly slowly, blood gushing from its neck as Ryoga pulled his lance back. Its eyes had widened in horror, its body convulsing, and as it hit the ground, Kaito watched it twitch one last time before its eyes dulled.

He couldn’t move as he stared down at the dead Barian, warm blood pooling under its head; he could barely hold his sword steady.

He had never killed before. He had never seen a man kill before.

“Kaito!”

Ryoga’s voice cut through his haze and he lifted his sword to instinctively block an attack, only it came too late and Kaito found himself on the ground as a Barian – he registered dimly that another body lay next to him; had Ryoga killed that one, too? – positioned itself over him and aimed for his chest.

He couldn’t move his arm and could only watch in a kind of grotesque fascination as the Barian brought its weapon down.

The Barian toppled over, falling heavily to the ground as Ryoga’s foot connected with its hipbone. Kaito turned his head, squeezing his eyes shut, and heard a soft squelching noise when Ryoga’s lance went through the Barian’s body. A splatter of warm liquid hit Kaito’s face and hair –  _blood_ , he knew without touching it – and he fought the urge to throw up. He still couldn’t open his eyes, knowing that Ryoga had just killed three Barians.

And the look in Ryoga’s eyes had been one of cold indifference.

Footsteps headed away from him, and there was shouting – Gilag’s voice – and frenzied demands met with an ear-splitting  _clang_ ; hesitant footsteps danced on the stone floor and Kaito  _knew_ Ryoga couldn’t hurt Gilag, not when it meant he might hurt his friend-

Forcing himself to take steadying breaths, Kaito rolled onto his knees and opened his eyes, deliberately looking as far from the floor as possible. Ryoga stood a ways down the hall facing Gilag, who had a large hammer in one hand, but Ryoga’s lance was positioned defensively across his body, with the tip up instead of to his side. Gilag glanced past Ryoga and Kaito’s heart stopped.

Gilag would certainly tell Durbe that Kaito was not only still alive, but actively conspiring against them.

“The hell…?” Gilag’s eyes lingered on Kaito, who stepped cautiously over one of the bodies in his way, taking shaky steps to Ryoga’s side.

“It’ll be easier to fight without him in your way,” Ryoga was saying, unaware that Gilag’s attention was focused on Kaito.

Gilag’s eyes narrowed as he shoved Yuma to the side. Yuma fell against the wall and collapsed to the floor; Ryoga took two worried steps toward him before Gilag aimed a blow at his head.

There was no way Kaito could have parried Gilag’s hammer even had he been close enough to do so, but he was close enough to Ryoga to swing the flat side of his sword against the back of Ryoga’s knees, and Ryoga toppled backward in time for Gilag to smash his hammer into the wall.

Ryoga heaved the bottom of his lance into Gilag’s jaw just as Kaito rammed the side of Gilag’s head with the butt of his sword. 

Kaito heard Gilag mumble something that sounded like  _backstabbing bastard_ before his head hit the wall next to Yuma and he fell, unconscious.

A moment of silence passed before Ryoga let out a shaky breath and crawled over next to Yuma’s semi-conscious body, shaking him gently. Yuma’s eyes unfocusedly drifted over Ryoga’s face before closing again, and the captain grabbed Yuma’s face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over his cheeks.

“Yuma, it’s me. It’s Ryoga. I’m here to take you away.” Yuma mumbled incoherently, but Ryoga seemed to know what he was saying. “No, I’m not a dream. I’m real. This is real.”

Kaito felt intrusive, so he turned away, heading back up the hall where he had heard the voice arguing with Gilag before. A pale face greeted him at a cell door, and Kaito recognized the distinctive tattoos of the Astralite royal family.

“Lord Astral,” he murmured.

Astral gripped the bars as Kaito placed the tip of his sword into the lock. “Lord Kaito? And that’s Captain Kamishiro…” His voice sounded relieved. “He was successful, then.”

Kaito grunted in response, shoving the sword into the lock until he heard it click open. “Come on, we have to get out of here now.” He pulled the door open and helped Astral into the hall. Astral’s once-fine livery now hung loosely over his body, covered in mud, rips, and blood; his high cheekbones were sunken.

“Thank you,” Astral whispered, but Kaito didn’t respond as they made their way quickly back to Ryoga and Yuma. To Kaito’s annoyance, Ryoga was still holding Yuma’s face, whispering to him with no sign of responsiveness. It was apparent that Gilag’s yells for reinforcements had been ineffective or they would have been swarmed with Barians, but it was only a matter of time now before Gilag would be expected with his prisoner.

Astral’s body tensed at the sight of the three Barians lying in puddles of their own blood, but mercifully remained silent.

“Ryoga!” Kaito said urgently. “We have to go,  _now_. It’s almost sunrise and more will be here at any minute when these ones are late-”

“I know, I  _know_.” Ryoga brushed the stubble along Yuma’s jawline. His eyes held warmth that Kaito had never seen in him before – sad and despairing, but warm and thankful at the same time, thankful that Yuma was alive. “Yuma, we’re leaving. I’m going to take you away from here.”

Yuma mumbled again, but this time, Kaito caught a few words. “…if I had been stronger…”

“Shh, don’t say that. Don’t you dare.” Ryoga looked up at Astral, the desperation returning to his eyes. “Prince Astral… what did they do to him?”

“Torture,” Astral whispered as Kaito pulled the shaking prince’s arm over his shoulders. “It was to make me remove my pendant. They were going to take my powers and kill all of us. Yuma-” He cut off and bit his lip. Kaito, despite himself, felt a stab of curiosity. Whatever the Barians had done to him was undoubtedly not physical, at least not entirely. The worse of it was probably emotional. Yuma certainly  _looked_  like a broken man; his eyes held no life, no spark of enthusiasm or joy that someone had come to save him. He had clearly given up.

Ryoga seemed to realize the same thing, and he squeezed his eyes shut before seizing his lance again. He hauled Yuma to his feet, wrapping Yuma’s limp arm around him, but Yuma refused to stand – or maybe he was unable to.

“Yuma, come on-”

But Yuma’s body was slack against Ryoga, and he was forced to lift Yuma into his arms and carry him. It must have been uncomfortable, carrying Yuma while holding a lance, but the captain didn’t say anything; he just looked down at Yuma’s face with despairing eyes before nodding at Kaito. Astral leaned heavily on Kaito’s shoulder. So Yuma wasn’t the only one whose body and spirit were spent.

“What do we do about him?” Kaito asked quietly, nodding at Gilag.

Ryoga looked down at the unconscious general, the hardened look in his eyes once more. “We should kill him.”

Astral’s hand tightened on Kaito’s arm and Kaito inhaled sharply. It made sense; Kaito couldn’t be seen associating with the most wanted man in the Barian Empire.

Ryoga shifted his lance so Yuma’s legs draped over his dominant arm and placed it over Gilag’s chest.

Yuma reached out his hand and placed it over Ryoga’s.

“Please…” Yuma murmured, looking up at Ryoga. “No more killing.”

The resolve in Ryoga’s eyes melted and he gripped Yuma’s shoulder. “Yuma, he-”

“Please.” The word was punctuated with a sob and Ryoga closed his eyes. “I don’t want any more killing.”

It was a childish plea, and Kaito hated him for it. He hated himself more for not being able to bring himself to kill Gilag.

Ryoga looked up at Kaito, the question clear.  _Should I?_

 _If he tells Durbe I’m alive and that I helped Prince Astral escape…_ Haruto would be in danger, and so would his kingdom.

But he didn’t want to kill Gilag, and he didn’t want to be around for Ryoga killing him, either.

Maybe letting the general live would be a bargaining chip later on, or perhaps he could feign innocence and blame it all on Gilag’s unconsciousness. It was a long shot, but he didn’t study diplomacy and politics for this long without being able to come up with ridiculous excuses and lies.

“Kaito?” Ryoga said softly.

Kaito shook his head. He would have to find a way to deal with the Barians later. Ryoga looked down at the general and let out a soft huff. Kaito couldn’t blame him, after everything the Barians had done to his kingdom and his race.

Kaito led Astral down the narrow hallway and listened carefully for noise. Nothing.

_This is going too well._

“Captain, what of Lady Kotori?” Astral murmured as they approached the hidden doorway.

Ryoga’s hold on Yuma’s legs tightened. “Where is she?”

Astral shook his head wearily. “Upstairs somewhere. The Barians are using her skills.”

“Damn it,” Ryoga grunted, shifting Yuma’s body.

“And there’s another. A wild girl we met in the mountains. Cathy. The Barians said something about civilizing her, so she may be with Lady Kotori.”

“We don’t have-” Kaito began, but Ryoga cut him off.

“We need to take you and Yuma to safety. Rio and I will come back and get Kotori and this… Cathy.”

Kaito tapped his foot impatiently. He had returned to the palace for Prince Astral. Yuma Tsukumo was part of the deal – Ryoga had made that abundantly clear – but it was madness to go into the occupied areas of the palace, especially when the Barians sent someone down to see what was taking Gilag so long and sounded an alert for the escaped prisoners. He could take Astral back to Tenjo with him and leave the Dragoons and Yuma Tsukumo behind. But if he did, Astral would never help him willingly. He still didn’t know what had happened when he placed his hand on Ryoga’s chest to extract his powers, and he couldn’t risk doing the same to Astral.

“I know an entrance that leads to the third floor royal chambers.” He pulled open the hidden door. “I’ll take you, but you have to be prepared to fight. There are at least two more powerful Barian warriors here, and probably two or more lords. I can’t be seen with you by any of the others.”

Ryoga nodded slowly. He seemed to understand why Kaito didn’t want to be seen with them. It would endanger Haruto and his kingdom. He wasn’t about to do that for two women he didn’t know or care about. But Astral did, and Kaito had to go along with it if he wanted Astral’s help. The more leverage he had, the better. 

They slipped back into the darkness.

—-

Durbe leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the library window, watching the sun peek over the ridges of the mountains to the east. Mizael sat nearby, silent. Neither had been able to sleep, nor did they speak much during the night. Durbe knew Mizael was still upset with him, only now Mizael had every right in the world to be.

The sun’s reflection on the rolling storm clouds cast a fiery glow over the raised stage just inside the Arclight gardens. A crowd was already forming around it, humans eager to witness their prince be wed under the broken body of the bride’s hanging brother.

Maybe Mizael had been right about humans after all.

“Gilag’s late,” Durbe said quietly without turning from the window. “Send Alit to see what’s going on.”

He heard Mizael cross the room and open the door, speaking in an undertone to the Barian in the hall. A strange feeling tugged at the back of Durbe’s mind, something… bad. Something was going to happen.

Mizael closed the door again and returned to his seat.

“You’re welcome to leave me, if you wish.”

“I’m not leaving you unattended while hundreds of humans-”

“Permanently, Mizael, not just for this. You’re welcome to return to Baria and serve strictly in the military.”

There was a short pause. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Now that you know what I’ve been doing all this time, I wouldn’t blame-”

“I see you still don’t care about what  _I_ want, Durbe.”

Durbe turned away from the window and found Mizael standing with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed. “I’ve dragged you into something you don’t want to be part of.”

“If I have to rip open our flesh and swear another blood oath to you, I will, if that’s what it takes for you to understand that I’m following you because I _trust_  you and not because you’re dragging me along.”

Durbe’s eyes softened in a smile. “Even if you disagree with me?”

“ _Especially_  since I disagree with you. I don’t want you doing something stupid and not have someone to ground you.” Mizael’s voice had lost some of the bite.

“I see.” Durbe closed his eyes and exhaled softly. It was more than he had expected, and certainly more than he deserved from Mizael. “I am truly thankful for you, Mizael.”

Mizael shrugged and pulled at his red trousers, a sign of embarrassment. Durbe hadn’t meant to speak emotionally; he knew it made Mizael uncomfortable.

Another moment of silence passed, broken by shouting and frantic, heavy footsteps outside the door before it burst open.

Alit was breathing heavily, eyes wide. “Durbe, Gilag’s unconscious and they’re gone.”

—-

Sitting on the bed with her knees pulled up wrinkled the dress, but Akari didn’t really care. It was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen, pure white silk with pearls sewn into the bodice and flowing sleeves. But she felt _filthy_ in it, knowing she had to marry a man she knew nothing about after watching her brother hang for doing nothing more than remaining loyal to his prince and kingdom.

“Your crying is going to stain the fabric,” Lord Christopher said from his straight-backed position at the window. Like his bride-to-be, he wore white silk robes, painstakingly embroidered in gold thread. He wore his long hair back in a braid, tied off with blue silk ribbon. There was a slender sword at his waist, tied to his belt by a thin golden rope. He had ignored her feeble attempts to keep him out of the room but he didn’t seem to have anything to say to her. He watched her wrinkle the dress as she cried and wiped her nose on her sleeve, and made no motion to comfort her.

“I don’t give a damn.”

“A queen does not speak coarsely, either.”

“I don’t want to be  _queen_ ,” she said stiffly, rubbing the palm of her hand over her cheek. “Where’s my grandmother?”

“She’s fine. She’s rather fond of our kitchens, so we’re letting her stay with the cooks.”

“Oh, so Gran gets to be a cook while I get to be  _queen_ ,” she said sardonically. “What’s your aim, anyway? You don’t want this any more than I do, I can tell.”

He didn’t say anything at first, but she could tell he was thinking about it. It made her angry again, and she snorted before throwing herself back on her pillow. She heard him approach and tensed as he sat on the edge of the bed. She heard a faint commotion coming from the other end of the hall, but Chris didn’t seem to think much of it. “You shouldn’t be punished for your brother’s sins.”

“He didn’t  _sin_ ,” she snapped. “Unless it’s a sin to want your kingdom back.”

This drew a humorless smile from him. “Sometimes it is.”

Before she could ask him to elaborate, the door flew open and three Barians stormed in. She whimpered at the sight of their mouthless faces; Durbe’s face was contorted in a rage she hadn’t seen on him before, and judging by Chris’s tense shoulders and the way he held his hand between Akari and Durbe, Chris hadn’t either.

“Where are they?” Durbe demanded without preamble, grabbing Chris by the collar and forcing him to his feet. Behind him, Mizael stood with his arms unfolded and eyes narrowed, and Alit shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

“What are you-”

Durbe shook him and Chris flinched. “They’re missing, Lord Christopher. Where are they?” He turned his gaze to Akari. “Are  _you_  responsible? You two were the last ones in the dungeons.”

Despite her fear of the Barians, she couldn’t help but feel a wave of joy wash over her; Yuma and Prince Astral had escaped?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Chris grunted, grabbing Durbe’s hand, trying to pry it off his neck. “It’s not my fault that you can’t keep track of your prisoners-”

“This is not a joke, Christopher!” Durbe released his collar roughly, and Chris stumbled backward. “They could not have left the palace unaided! Either it was one of you or one of your brothers, and when I find out which of you it was, I will see you  _all_  hang.”

His cloak swished around his ankles as he strode out of the room; Mizael raised an eyebrow before following Alit out, slamming the door behind him.

Chris placed a hand to his neck and let out a low breath. “I’ve never seen him lose control like that,” he whispered.

Akari climbed off the bed, futilely brushing at a wrinkle as she approached him. He was breathing heavily, his eyes full of concern. “My brother escaped?”

Chris closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, they probably didn’t escape. Someone must have freed them.”

It sounded like the same thing to Akari, and she felt hope fill her chest for the first time in an eternity. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know.” He placed his hand on his sword. “Stay here.”

“Where are you going?”

“To find my brothers before Durbe harms them.”

She grabbed his arm as he headed to the door. “What’s going to happen to me if…”

He looked at her hand for a moment before slowly reaching over and placing his own over it. “I don’t know. I’ll try my best to keep you safe, because none of this should concern you.” He removed her hand from his arm and left the room.

She looked down at her dress, covered in wet marks from her crying. Relief flooded over her as she sat on the edge of the bed and clasped her hands in a prayer for the gods to aid her brother in his escape.

—-

The stone paved tunnel was narrow and black and Ryoga had to walk sideways with his head ducked down for the entire mile back to the woods where they had left Anna, Rio, and the assassins. He couldn’t see Yuma’s face, couldn’t tell if he had his eyes open or closed, but Yuma’s hand tightened on his shoulder, and Ryoga felt a strange kind of peace in his heart. Yuma was alive, Prince Astral was alive; he had a reason to fight the Barians again.

But that guilt tugged at his heartstrings again as he felt Yuma’s warm breaths brush his neck, no matter how much he tried to tell himself that he was simply overjoyed to have his best friend back.

“Captain,” Astral’s voice carried back from a few yards ahead.

“Yeah?”

“Durbe asked Yuma what Yuma’s father was doing in the Sargasso Waste. Do you know?”

Ryoga imagined Kaito’s interest peaking at this question. It was, after all, exactly what Kaito wanted to know. “We think he made a weapon that can do to Barians what the Baria Crystal does to people like us.”

“Is there such a thing?” Astral’s voice was surprised.

“Yeah. We met a girl who made this lance. It does the same thing that… that Yuma’s sword does.”

Yuma’s hand clenched Ryoga’s cloak. “My sword?” He shifted in Ryoga’s arms and Ryoga almost dropped him.

“Don’t move, Yuma, we’re almost there,” he murmured.

“What about my sword?”

“Your father designed a sword with a kind of plant in the Sargasso Waste that neutralizes Barian powers,” Kaito said.

“Who’s that?”

“Kaito Tenjo. Where is your sword, Yuma Tsukumo?”

“I…”

Ryoga let out a frustrated growl. “He’s just been through hell, Kaito. Forget about the sword for a little while.”

“If it’s here, we have to retrieve it before the Barians figure out what it is,” Kaito argued. “If it offers us an advantage over the Barians, it’s of the utmost importance.” His footsteps stopped abruptly and Ryoga bumped into him. “We’re here.”

Ryoga bit back a curse and waited for Kaito to ascend the ladder. There was a short pause, and dim sunlight filtered into the tunnel, momentarily blinding Ryoga as Astral began climbing. Kaito reached down and helped Astral up while Ryoga gently lowered Yuma to the ground. “Hey, I need you to climb this for me. Can you stand?”

“Uh… huh.” Yuma gripped the ladder rungs. “Can you… spot me?”

“Yeah. Go on.”

He climbed with agonizing slowness, and Ryoga followed. It took almost three minutes for Yuma to climb the ten feet to the top, and when Kaito finally pulled him out, he collapsed.

“Yuma!”

Rio reached him before her brother finished climbing out of the hole and helped Yuma sit up. “Gods, it’s good to see you, Yuma,” she murmured, patting his face. “Did it really take you a month to grow this stubble?”

Droite and Gauche stood several feet back, muttering to each other. Anna hovered behind Rio, watching Yuma anxiously. Yuma didn’t seem to notice her; his eyes trailed back toward the palace a mile off and his eyes widened in terror, body suddenly seizing up as he clenched Rio’s shoulder and buried his face in her chest.

“Yuma, what-”

Ryoga fell to his knees next to them and pulled Yuma and his sister in an embrace. Yuma’s body rocked with sobs; Ryoga could make out a quiet  _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_  slipping past Yuma’s lips and felt sorrow seize his heart.

“What the hell did they do to you, Yuma?”

Yuma didn’t respond.

“Durbe had your journal,” Astral whispered. He stood back a few feet, next to Kaito, who remained silent and still. “He read…”

Tears stung at the corners of Ryoga’s eyes.  _Durbe made him relive that night._ Yuma’s body seemed intact, at least from what Ryoga could see, so he knew just what kind of torture Yuma had been put through. It was more effective than physical torture ever could be; this went deep into Yuma’s soul, and Yuma suffered unimaginably for it.

 _This must have been where it happened_ , Ryoga thought, glancing out over the palace. They needed to get Yuma away from here quickly.

“Ryoga,” Rio whispered as they held Yuma between them, “where is Lady Kotori?”

Ryoga bit his lip. “Still in the palace.”

“Are… we going to get her out?” Rio pressed.

“We have to get away from here first,” Kaito interrupted. “It’s only a matter of time before they find that entrance.”

“And then what?” Ryoga demanded. “Why the hell can’t you just teleport us in?”

Astral frowned at this, eyes narrowed in confusion, but Ryoga didn’t feel like explaining. He didn’t understand it himself.

“I think I already answered why I can’t do that,” Kaito said icily.

 _You hardly answered the question back then, you bastard_ , Ryoga thought grimly. “Then how are we going to get back into the palace?”

Kaito gazed out at the palace, washed in the sun’s morning rays. “We’ll have to be in the courtyard, because that’s where the entrance to the guest chambers is.”

Ryoga raised his eyebrows in bewilderment and pulled closer to Yuma. Was Kaito serious? “You want us to go join that crowd for the execution that  _isn’t_ happening because the prisoner escaped  _while_ the Barians are undoubtedly tearing the palace apart looking for him?”

Kaito slowly turned his gaze back to the Dragoons. “Yes.”

Ryoga laughed. “You are out of your fucking mind.”

“We can leave the woman, then, and Tsukumo’s sword.”

Ryoga swore under his breath and squeezed his eyes shut. This was insane. “How?”

Kaito pointed at Anna and the assassins. Ryoga had almost forgotten they were there. “You invent weapons, correct?”

Anna pulled back and grimaced. “You’re not involving  _me_  in this madness.”

“Answer me.”

She looked helplessly at Rio, who gave her a sympathetic smile, and Anna’s shoulders slumped. “Yes.”

“Do you have anything that will explode?”

There was a stunned silence, and even Yuma stopped sobbing long enough to look up at Kaito.

“ _What_?”

Kaito held out his hands and made a blooming motion with them. “Do you have. Anything. That will. Explode.”

Anna’s mouth was half-open and her eyes darted around the group, where everyone stared at her. “Oh gods, how did I get mixed up with you lunatics?”

“Answer the damn question,” Ryoga said impatiently.

“Fine,  _yes_. I have…” Anna reached into her side pack, scowling now, and pulled out a small bag. “I have this powder. I use it to make flares.”

“How big of an explosion can you make it?” Kaito asked.

She closed her eyes. “Give me twenty minutes and I can make an explosion that will blanket the entire courtyard in smoke.”

A horrible twist graced Kaito’s lips. Ryoga shuddered. If he hadn’t known that Kaito was actually on their side, he would have been frightened by the sight of the man, with the blue mark around his eye and his Barian powers. “That will do perfectly.”


	23. Wedding Vows

Thomas gazed down into the gardens, where Durbe and Mizael stood atop the execution platform. Even from this distance, he knew the crowd was impatient; they had come for an execution, and Durbe now had to stand beside the empty noose swinging wildly in the increasingly powerful wind and tell them there would be none. This situation put Durbe in a difficult position; not only had he failed to execute Yuma Tsukumo, but he had allowed him to escape – with Prince Astral.

That, more than anything, infuriated Thomas.

He had never seen Durbe angry – truly angry – until Durbe had thrown open the doors to Thomas’s bedchambers, thrown Thomas against a wall, and demanded to know where Astral and Yuma were. As if Thomas had anything to do with it; he wanted Astral’s powers to heal his father. Why would he aid them in escaping?

Even so, it was almost satisfying to see the unruffled Barian lord so agitated.

He adjusted his robes. Would the wedding still take place? The weather was hardly suitable for a wedding ceremony, but if it appeased the crowd in the courtyard…

There was a pounding at his door before it opened again, and he let out a frustrated sigh. “Really, does the concept of privacy mean nothing to-” He stopped at the sight of his brother, breathing heavily as he strode into the room. “Chris?” He grimaced as Chris grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Thomas, did Durbe-”

“I’m fine, now calm  _down_ ,” Thomas hissed, pulling Chris’s hands off his body. Did he not understand that Mihael and Thomas were grown men and not his baby brothers anymore? “You’re unsightly when you get agitated.”

Chris exhaled sharply and turned to the window. “He threatened you and Mihael, said you had something to do with the prince’s escape…”

“And like I told him, Prince Astral is the key to curing our father. It had to have been someone else with knowledge of the palace’s layout.”

Chris snorted. “Who? None of the staff knew Prince Astral was here. And if any of them found out, why would they risk aiding him?”

Thomas turned his head and looked back out the window. “Someone, perhaps, who wanted to undermine the Barians’ influence in Arclight?”

“I can’t think of-”

There was a flash, and a deafening  _boom_  from the courtyard that shook the palace walls. Thomas grabbed a chair to steady himself as Chris stumbled into the wall. Smoke billowed from the courtyard, densest on the right side of the platform, obscuring the Arclights’ view of what was happening. Screams filled the air; the archers stationed on top of the palace walls hesitated. If they had expected a disturbance, they certainly hadn’t expected this.

“The hell was that?” Thomas demanded.

Chris’s gaze darted across the courtyard. “It can’t be a coincidence. Whoever helped the prince and Tsukumo escape planned this.”

“A diversion?” Thomas mused. It would make sense. He could make out figures moving in the smoke, but the archers had finally put their heads together and were closing the gate; he could hear its shrill creak. “But why would they do it  _in_ the courtyard? Surely they realized they would get trapped by the palace gates.” His brother didn’t seem to be listening, and Thomas sighed. “What now?”

“This will throw off the wedding,” he muttered. “She’s his sister… What if they…”

He didn’t need to finish the thought for Thomas to understand his meaning. “What are you going to do?”

Chris narrowed his eyes. For a moment, he was back to Thomas’s collected, rational brother. “Get Elder Rokujuro and the grandmother. Bring them and Mihael to Lady Akari’s chambers.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “While you’re at it, bring the Healer and the savage woman too.”

Thomas didn’t have time to question his brother before he strode out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind him.

—-

Situated in gardens at Arclight palace was a platform that stretched nearly twenty yards across the center of the courtyard. Directly in the middle of the platform was a hangman’s noose, waiting for its innocent victim to meet his terrible fate.

Two hooded figures joined the large crowd gathering in the gardens. Nearby, a red-cloaked figure weaved her way through the crowd until she reached the base of the stage, dropping something discreetly on the ground before rummaging around in her satchel.

Ryoga couldn’t see what Anna was doing, but he prayed she wasn’t going to backstab them now. They’d come too far to be captured or killed. His hand felt uncomfortable without his lance. He felt useless without it, but it was hardly a discreet weapon. He hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to using his sword; he had never really been good with one.

Still, knowing that Yuma and Astral had his lance, and that all they had to do was scratch a Barian with it to trigger the same reaction Barian weapons had on them, reassured him. He hated leaving Yuma and Astral alone in their state, but Astral had promised to take care of Yuma.

Kaito stood a few yards away, hood pulled low, concealing his marked eye. Rio had tried to convince Kaito to return to his kingdom so he wouldn’t be seen by anyone else, but he refused.

_I have something I need to do here anyway._

He hadn’t elaborated, and Ryoga wondered about it. Perhaps he really  _was_  in with Droite and Gauche on some harebrained assassination attempt. The assassins were nowhere in sight, but Ryoga had a feeling they were nearby. One of the Barian lords would have to oversee such a historic execution, and if Droite and Gauche were sent to kill a lord, this was the perfect place to do it. Barian security was lax; he had been surprised to find that no one was checking them for weapons before entering the gates.

Rio nudged him. “Look up,” she whispered. He pulled his hood up just enough to see a number of archers standing at the ready on the palace walls. So they were expecting that something might go wrong after all.

The crowd was getting restless; they had been promised an execution, but were unaware for the time that their promised victim was no longer at the Barians’ mercy. Ryoga pondered how the Barians were going to sort out this situation, and almost as soon as he had this thought, Durbe walked across the courtyard, Mizael behind him, and ascended the stairs.

_You must think you have control of the situation to expose yourself like this._

Durbe looked out over the crowd, which had stilled at his presence, and Ryoga understood why. Though several inches shorter than the general accompanying him, Durbe held himself with a straight-backed confidence, chin up, mouthless face void of emotion. He exuded an almost tangible authority, and when he spoke, it was in a clear, low voice.

“We understand you are here for an execution,” he began, and the crowd broke into murmurs. Durbe held up a hand and cleared his throat. “ _Silence_ while a lord is speaking!” The crowd fell silent again.

“Have to give him credit for intimidation,” Rio muttered in Ryoga’s ear, and he was inclined to agree with her.

“As I was saying,” Durbe went on, “the execution will not happen.” He paused, as if waiting for the crowd to erupt into murmurs again.  No one made a sound. “The terrorist Yuma Tsukumo committed suicide in his cell last night.”

Ryoga clenched his fists. He was  _so close_ ; Ryoga longed for his lance, to thrust it through Durbe’s chest, to put an end to at least one of the Barian Emperors. To kill the Barian who had hurt Yuma.

“…seven, six, five…”

With a start, he realized that Kaito had somehow migrated next to him, muttering, and Ryoga realized all too late that it was a countdown. Kaito covered his ears.

“Instead, we would like to offer the people of the Arclight Kingdom-”

 “Now,” Kaito whispered, and Ryoga couldn’t cover his ears in time.

The explosion deafened him first; for a moment, he could hear nothing but a faint ringing in his ears. He coughed as clouds of smoke carried by the heavy winds billowed from the wall, his eyes watering as he tried in vain to see through the rapidly blackening air; he stumbled forward, trying to remember where he was, but people around him stumbled into him, and he was certain he was getting turned around-

“Rio!” he choked out, the ringing in his ears muffling the sound of his voice, and a hand gripped his cloak.  

“I’m here,” her faint voice assured him. “Where’s Kaito?”

“Here.” Ryoga tried and failed back as another hand clasped his and he felt someone leading him along. Rio’s hand tightened on his cloak as she followed.

“How the hell do you know where you’re going?” Ryoga demanded, trying to ignore the disgust clenching his stomach at Kaito holding his hand. He tried to shift Kaito’s grip, maybe to hold onto his wrist or his arm instead, but Kaito held firmly. Ryoga suspected Kaito was doing it to piss him off. If that was the case, it was working.

“I’ve memorized the layout of the palace gardens. Now shut up, we’re about to pass the stage.”

Ryoga bit back a retort. It wasn’t a satisfactory answer. But then, none of Kaito’s answers were satisfactory. How he knew secret entrances into the palace that even the Barians didn’t, why he couldn’t create portals into the palace, how he knew the exact layout of the gardens… The more he learned about Kaito Tenjo, the less he understood. He certainly wasn’t the spoiled prince Ryoga had thought he was.

Finally – mercifully – Kaito let go of Ryoga’s hand. The smoke was thinner here, and Ryoga could make out Kaito’s blurry form as he ran his fingers over the wall, systematically loosening bricks.

“Where’s the entrance?” Rio demanded, and Ryoga was relieved that his hearing was coming back.

The Kamishiros could make out Kaito’s finger pointing up and Ryoga took a step forward to grab Kaito by the neck; Rio grabbed him by the arm. Judging by her loose grasp that did very little to stop her brother from reaching for Kaito, she wasn’t much happier about the situation than Ryoga was.

“You said you had a way in!” Ryoga hissed, one hand finding the front of Kaito’s shirt.

Kaito’s hand shot up and pried Ryoga’s free. “I didn’t lie, Ryoga Kamishiro.” He turned to the wall and began to climb. “Hurry. The smoke is clearing.”

Ryoga clenched his fists and looked up the wall, where Kaito pulled out certain bricks for footholds as he climbed. He must have done this many times before, judging by how quickly he found loose bricks. Maybe he was the one who loosed the bricks in the first place.

_Why would he need to sneak into a neighboring kingdom’s palace in the first place?_

He turned back, where some kind of commotion was taking place on the hazy execution platform. He could barely make out two figures kneeling on it. One was shouting something – Ryoga couldn’t tell what he was yelling, or who it was – and a third figure made its way through the smoke toward them.

With a muttered curse, he gestured for Rio to head up first, and followed close behind.

—-

It took Durbe a full thirty seconds to register the explosion. He couldn’t hear anything at first, and the smoke blinded him. Muffled screams echoed around the courtyard; he could hear a voice in his ear, but until he realized that his knees were pressed into the platform and Mizael’s were arms wrapped protectively around his body from behind, he didn’t know who was speaking.

“…hear me, Durbe?” It was so faint that Durbe could hardly make it out.

He couldn’t hear his own voice, though he was sure he responded.  _Mizael…?_

Mizael pulled Durbe with him to his feet and turned his back on the crowd, away from the billowing smoke. Durbe blinked furiously, trying to see through the haze. Mizael pulled him along, back to the palace with his arms still clutching Durbe. Durbe let Mizael lead him; Mizael was talking, but there was still an odd ringing noise in Durbe’s ears, and he didn’t hear the grunt of pain before Mizael slumped against Durbe’s back.

“Mizael?” Durbe stumbled forward against the sudden weight at his back, half-turning in his confusion to catch the Barian he could barely see; Mizael’s weight caught Durbe off-balance, and they fell to the platform together.

—-

Akari stood at the window, watching the smoke pour through the courtyard under her window. She didn’t know what had happened; she knew only that something had exploded. There had been fireworks planned for the evening festivities, or so King Byron had informed her, but this was no firework explosion. There was no fire, as far as she could tell. This was a powder explosion, and probably a deliberate one. Whoever had saved her brother and the prince must be using it as a diversion to escape.

It was satisfying, to see the Barians be publicly humiliated.

Someone knocked once before throwing the door open, and Chris barreled in.

“Lady Akari,” he breathed, striding to the window and peering into the courtyard, where the smoke was thinning. The sky was just as dark as the smoke had been, and low thunder rumbled through the floor. “We’re not going to be having a wedding ceremony.”

 _Obviously._  “Then may I return to the Astral Kingdom with my grandmother?” She hoped that this entire situation would be abandoned so she could go back to how life used to be. Only this time, she was determined to find her brother and make amends for two years of not talking to him. It weighed heavily on her heart that her brother had carried such a burden with him for so long and could never share even a part of his despair and guilt with his own sister.

“No.”

She frowned at him as he moved the three chairs in the room against the wall and dragged the end table into the middle of the room. “Why not? What are you doing?”

He looked up at her through a curtain of hair that had fallen into his eyes. “We’re getting married now.”

She couldn’t draw breath and her legs gave out as she fell heavily to the bed. This wasn’t a Barian scheme of mercy after all. Christopher Arclight was the one behind this from the start. She had assumed it to be a political power play, but despite all this… he was still willing to go through with it.

“Why?” she whispered.

He rummaged through a chest of drawers and pulled out a linen cloth. “They think you’re part of this.”

“I’m not-”

“I know you’re not,” he said sharply, throwing the cloth over the end table. “But  _they_  don’t. They’ll kill Akari Tsukumo of the Astral Kingdom as retribution for Yuma Tsukumo’s escape.”

Her heart pounded. It made sense now. “But they won’t… they won’t kill the wife of the eldest Arclight son.”

“That’s right.”

Something still nagged at her. “Why do you care so much about what happens to me? You barely know me. I thought it was mercy at first, but… this will affect the rest of your life.”

His hands paused in the act of smoothing out the cloth. He looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

Didn’t matter? Didn’t he realize that her life was now tied to his, whether they wanted it or not? What kind of husband would keep secrets from his wife?

Before she could press the question, the door opened.

“Gran!”

Akari’s shoulders relaxed and she smiled as she embraced her grandmother, whose eyes were red – presumably for Yuma’s sake – and tired.

“Akari,” Haru murmured, stroking Akari’s hair. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

“Yuma escaped,” Akari whispered, smiling despite the tears streaming from her eyes. She was surprised to find she still had tears left, though her nose dripped and her head throbbed dully.

Haru’s grip tightened. “Praise the gods.”

A strong hand tugged her free from Haru and pulled her over to the end table. She yanked her arm away and narrowed her eyes at the second Arclight brother, whose brows were furrowed as he kept glancing out the window. “We need to hurry, Chris. The smoke has cleared and Durbe isn’t outside anymore.”

The youngest brother set an enormous jeweled silver goblet on the table and filled it with wine before Chris reached around it and gripped Akari’s wrists. The three brothers looked worried; Akari clenched her fists against Chris’s vice grip. Two pale women joined Haru in the chairs against the wall – one, a silver-haired woman who hitched her dress to her knees and sat in a completely indecent manner, the other, the Healer Kotori. A short man with a white goatee and the simple brown robes of a monk stood nearby.

“We have five witnesses,” Chris breathed. “Hurry.”

The monk nodded and approached the table, pulling out a small book. “I am Elder Rokujuro of the Western Mountain Clan, here under the watchful protection of the Gods of the Astral Realm to join the Lady Akari Tsukumo, daughter of Kazuma and Mirai Tsukumo and brother of-”

“Can we skip the genealogy?” Chris suggested calmly.

Rokujuro glanced up slowly and raised an eyebrow. “Fine.” He cleared his throat. “To join Akari Tsukumo to Lord Christopher Arclight in marriage, to unify the Astral and Arclight Kingdoms in peace, and to beg the gods’ pardon for the soul of Yuma Tsukumo-”

“He didn’t do anything wrong and he’s not dead,” Akari interrupted, and Chris sighed in exasperation.

“Don’t interrupt the ceremony,” Thomas hissed.

“I will not allow my brother’s name to be dragged-”

“For the benefit of the people who have long desired their prince to ascend the throne with a wife,” Rokujuro said loudly, drowning out Akari’s protest. He snapped the book shut and pulled a small vial from his robes, uncorking it before continuing. “In the name of the gods, I bless you with eternal happiness.” He sprinkled a slick liquid over Akari’s head before doing the same to Chris. “May you ascend to the highest plane of the Astral World in unity.”

Chris’s nails dug into Akari’s wrist so tightly that she felt him draw blood. Her fingers fumbled for his wrists, trying to loosen his grip, and as they brushed his gemmed bracelet, he let go at once and yanked his hands back, nearly knocking over the cup of wine.

It was a bizarre response to whatever she had done, and Chris’s eyes were wide, mouth open slightly, and his hands trembled as he stared at his bracelet.

“Lord Christopher?” Elder Rokujuro reached for him, frowning, but Chris shook his head and leaned forward again, taking Akari’s hands this time. She felt them tremble in hers.  _How curious._

“If the Lady will drink from the-”

“No,” Chris breathed.

Rokujuro put his hands on his hips and scowled. “Are you getting cold feet, Lord Christopher, because if I may remind you-”

Chris reached into his robes and pulled out a small silver knife, about the size of a knife used to peel potatoes or other small vegetables. Rokujuro eyed it warily and made a noise of protest as Chris made a neat slice in his forearm. Akari barely had time to register this before he placed the tip of the knife in her arm and make a small incision. She flinched at the sharp pain.

“What-”

“Lady Akari, I will make you a blood oath,” Chris breathed, and the already tense atmosphere in the room turned frigid. Thomas swore under his breath as Kotori and Haru let out soft gasps. Elder Rokujuro took a step back against the window as though wishing to distance himself from Chris.

“Brother,” Mihael began warningly.

“Be quiet.” Chris didn’t move his eyes from Akari’s. This was  _madness_. Only Barians made blood oaths; did he honestly expect her to go through with this? But he shifted his grip to her elbow and she felt their blood rub together. It was too late now.

“As long as you remain loyal to me and our kingdom, I will not allow the Barians to harm you or your grandmother,” Chris said quietly.

“What of my brother?” she mumbled. He shook his head and her arm went slack. He wouldn’t help Yuma. She wondered how far Yuma might have gotten by now. She glanced out the window, where the crowd inside the closed gates was collectively on its knees as armed soldiers – Barian and human alike – searched each person. Her heart pounded and she closed her eyes. “Fine.”

“Say it.”

She licked her lips. “I will remain loyal to… to the Arclight Kingdom.”

“ _Only_ to the Arclight Kingdom.”

She didn’t want to say it; she wanted to fight it. Astral Kingdom was her home. That was where her loyalty was, where her heart was. But she found herself repeating the words.

“For the rest of your life,” Chris pressed. He shook her arm slightly.

“For the rest of my life,” she whispered.

Chris’s shoulders relaxed and he let out a low breath. She could never go back to the way things were before.

—-

Durbe coughed as he dragged Mizael’s semi-conscious body through the smoke. Attempts to talk to his general elicited little more than a quiet moan or an unintelligible word, Durbe had no idea what had happened, and he couldn’t see anyway.

“Durbe!”

“Alit?” The lord squinted through the smoke at the figure jogging toward him. Part of him was relieved to see his other general, but then- “I told you to stay with Vector.”

Alit pulled Mizael’s limp arm over his shoulder. “When the blast went off, Vector headed to Baria.” He wrapped his arm around Mizael’s waist. “What happened?”

“Damn it.” Durbe squeezed his eyes shut. It felt nice to close his eyes against the dry smoke, but fear clenched his heart. Vector would take this straight back to the others, and Durbe would doubtless be censured for his incompetence. He deserved it at this point, didn’t he? He not only failed to get what he needed from Astral, but now Mizael was injured somehow. “I don’t know. He just collapsed.”

Mizael mumbled, and Durbe caught part of his name as they stumbled down from the platform toward the palace doors. The smoke was thinning the farther they got from the platform, and he could finally see more than three feet in front of him. “We’re getting you to a Healer, Mizael.” Mizael mumbled again and Durbe heard one word.

“Alit, his neck-”

Alit glanced sideways and exhaled sharply before pulling a small dart from Mizael’s neck. “What is this?”

Durbe recognized it immediately. He had heard stories of assassins in Heartland Kingdom who used poisons to great effect. They could kill their targets from a distance and slip away undetected. But Barians had a different anatomical makeup from humans. This poison, whatever it was, made Mizael’s entire body shake, and his external body temperature was already dangerously high.  This was something created specifically to kill Barians. Of that, Durbe had no doubt.

“Someone tried to assassinate me,” he said softly. His arm tightened around Mizael’s waist. “They missed.”  _And they will regret it until their last breath._

“How long is this going to take to kill him?” Alit whispered.

Durbe shook his head. He had to find Prince Astral and Yuma Tsukumo. He had to find the ones responsible for the explosion. He had to find the ones who were almost successful in killing his general. Too many people, too perfect to be a coincidence; it all went together, and if he found one person he could find them all. He pried Alit’s arm free from Mizael. “Lock the gates and search every person in this crowd. Every one of them, including women and children. Arrest anyone who has anything suspicious.”

“What if they resist?”

Durbe turned his head. “If they resist, then they are guilty. Kill them.”

—-

When Kaito pulled himself through the unlocked window of the third floor, he found the marble halls empty and surprisingly quiet. Kaito could hear shouting from two floors down, but nothing seemed close by. He motioned for the Kamishiros to follow him. If the Healer was in the palace, and hadn’t been taken to Baria to serve as a Healer, he would be surprised. Barian Healers had much shorter lifespans than human ones. But if she was still here, she would be either in the medical wing or the guest chambers, which were on opposite sides of the same hall.

He checked each small placard as they passed the rooms, but no familiar names popped out at him or the twins. The farther down the hall they got, the more Kaito believed the Healer was a prisoner at Baria, and that the Dragoons would never see her again.

“Here,” Ryoga whispered from ahead of him. He pointed at the small sign on the door. “These are her chambers. Hers and… Cathy’s.”

It was too fortunate that they would be able to find both women in the same place, and sure enough, when Ryoga cracked open the door and peered inside, he let out a frustrated sigh. “Not here.”

Rio’s face fell, the determination in her eyes giving way to sorrow. Kaito was simply frustrated; he was risking his life and his kingdom to help these Dragoons. He had no idea where in the palace either woman might be.

But he knew someone he could ask.

“Follow me,” he said curtly, veering down the hall to the royal family’s chambers.

“Where are we going?” Ryoga demanded.

“Just be quiet and-”

He felt Ryoga’s hand grab the back of his cloak before shoving Kaito into the wall, a grunt escaping his throat.

“I’m tired of your secrets, Kaito,” Ryoga breathed, their faces entirely too close for Kaito’s comfort. Ryoga didn’t seem to care, or if he did, his anger dominated his discomfort. “Where are you leading us? Was this whole thing an elaborate trick, to lead us right into the Barians’ hands?”

Kaito reached up and grabbed Ryoga by the wrists.  Ryoga didn’t let go; if anything, his grip tightened, restricting Kaito’s airflow. “I have my reasons for keeping quiet, but I assure you that I hate the Barians as much as you do.”

Ryoga gave a quiet laugh. “I sincerely doubt that.” He released Kaito, who rubbed his neck and took a few deep breaths to compose himself.

“Ryoga,” Rio hissed. “I hear someone.”

All three had their weapons in their hands before the person rounded the corner.

For the first time in weeks, Kaito felt relief wash over him. “Chris!” Ryoga turned his head and narrowed his eyes, but Kaito didn’t care. Chris was exactly who he had been going to see, and Kaito couldn’t help the small smile tug at his lips, an almost unfamiliar sensation by now.

Chris’s eyes darted between the Kamishiros and Kaito as he drew his own sword, and Kaito’s relief gave way to terror.

_No._

“Not you-” Kaito began desperately, but the cold lines in Chris’s face, the set of his jaw and the anger in his eyes…

“You sold your soul to the Barians,” Chris said quietly, “and now you’ve allied yourself with” -his eyes lingered on the Kamishiros again- “half-breed terrorists.”

“We can save our kingdoms,” Kaito pleaded. Couldn’t Chris see that? They may have damned their souls, but they could redeem their actions for their kingdoms by defeating the Barians.

“I thought you were dead, Kaito.”

_What is wrong with him?_

Rio took a cautious step forward. Kaito held out his hand. “No! You two leave this… leave this to me.” His voice came out shaky and he gritted his teeth.

“What the hell is going on?” Ryoga demanded.

“It doesn’t matter!” Kaito snapped. He pointed back the way they’d come. “There’s a parallel hall that’ll take you to the other bedchambers. If they’re not in any of those, you’ll have to accept that they’re not here.”

“You’re turning against me, Kaito?”

Kaito felt his heart shudder. He couldn’t tell if it was because of his sorrow over Chris or if his body was spent again. “There’s a stairwell down the northern corridor that will take you all the way to the dungeons.”

He met Ryoga’s eyes. Ryoga’s fury gave way to reluctant acceptance, and he grabbed his sister’s hand. Chris took a step to the side, but Kaito blocked him, holding his sword out. The Kamishiros’ footsteps faded and Kaito took a deep breath. He hadn’t wanted them to hear what he needed to say to Chris.

“Are you responsible for this?” Chris said in a low voice. “The explosion? Prince Astral?”

“Fight the Barians, Chris.” Kaito hated the desperation in his voice.

Chris stepped closer. Kaito stepped back. “You haven’t grown up, Kaito. All these years and you still think there’s such a thing as right and wrong.”

Kaito stepped back again. If this kept up, he’d run into a wall before too long. He’d have to fight back. And gods, he didn’t want to fight the man he loved. “You taught me that, Chris. That we have the gods on our side, and the gods are  _right_.” He bit his lip. “You taught me a lot of things.”

“You’re a child, Kaito.”

“At least I still have hope.”

“Hope.” Chris smiled humorlessly. He pulled his sword back. “Then show me your hope, Kaito Tenjo.”


	24. Lifeline

Chris leaned his practice sword against a nearby stall door and took a swig of water from his pouch, watching Kaito towel the sweat from his body. It was a humid summer evening – too humid, too hot to be outdoors, really – but Lord Faker didn’t like the idea of Kaito learning to use a sword, so for three years Chris taught him in secret.

“Kaito,” Chris began, but then he pressed his lips together and looked down.

“What is it?” Kaito looked at Chris quizzically, head tilted. “You aren’t worried still that Father will find out that you’re teaching me, are you?”

“No, it’s not that.” Chris let out a quiet sigh and avoided Kaito’s confused gaze. He didn’t speak, and Kaito frowned. This was unusual.

“Chris-” Kaito began, but Chris reached forward and placed both hands on Kaito’s shoulders. Kaito squirmed; it wasn’t  _uncomfortable,_ but Chris was never really the type to touch him.

“Kaito, have you ever heard of the legend of the Galaxy Eyes?”

Of course he had; it was a story every child on the continent knew. Even the Barians passed it down, with their children going out in search of the power it was said to possess. “Who hasn’t?” Kaito hesitated a moment before peeling Chris’s hands from his shoulders. Chris let him. “What does it have to do with anything?” It was an impossible legend, anyway. The story was incomplete.

Chris pulled his coat from a milking stool and rummaged in a few pockets before pulling out a crisply bound paper journal. “I’ve uncovered some research for you.”

Whatever Kaito thought Chris was going to give him, this wasn’t it. “Research on what? Why?” He flipped open the journal and turned a few pages. Some of it was written in the common language; other pages were written in what looked like an old dialect of the Ancient languages – both Astral and Barian – as well as a bizarre pictorial language that looked like little more than childish pictures of misshapen animals and disproportionate people.

He pulled back as Chris leaned closer. “Research on Galaxy Eyes.”

If Chris expected Kaito to be in awe, he was disappointed. Kaito snorted and snapped the book shut. “It’s a  _legend,_  Chris. Half of this I can’t even read, anyway.”

“You can!” Chris’s voice was quiet, urgent, and Kaito bumped into a stall door before he realized Chris had been backing him up the whole time. “The Astral language is simple to read, and the Barian language is very similar.” He grabbed Kaito’s hand, the one with the book in it, and pulled the book open again, pointing to the pictorials. “This is the Dragoon language.”

Kaito knew very little about Dragoons, aside from them being a secretive and unapproachable warrior race. “I sincerely doubt I could walk into the Dragoon village unannounced before they all impaled me.” He made to close the book again, but Chris placed his hands over Kaito’s and held the book open. Kaito raised an eyebrow. “You’re acting really weird today.”

Chris gave him a gentle smile, and Kaito felt his face warm. “You’re the prince of the Tenjo kingdom. The Dragoons wouldn’t say no to you, especially if you sent an invitation.”

“And say I uncover the complete legend, if that’s even what this is.” Kaito weighed the book in his hands. “What do I do with it?”

Chris’s face was so close now; Kaito’s eyes darted away from Chris’s face. “You become the master of Galaxy Eyes, and gain all its power.”

It sounded so  _ludicrous._ Why would Chris believe in such a story? Why would he believe that this small book in his hands even held the correct legends, and wasn’t simply an ancient Dragoon cookbook shoved in with procedures for Astralite tea ceremonies? “Why give this to  _me_?”

A small smile flitted across Chris’s face. “Happy eighteenth birthday.”

“My birthday was two weeks ago, Chris.”

“I know.”

The humidity was stifling as Chris pressed his tight lips to Kaito’s, or maybe Kaito was just forgetting to breathe. Either way, his face was hot and his chest burned, though from lack of oxygen or from something else entirely, Kaito wasn’t sure. They shifted for a more comfortable angle, and Kaito reached up, journal still clenched in his left hand, and pulled Chris’s face closer. Chris pulled back just enough to whisper something into Kaito’s half-open mouth.

“Is this okay?”

Kissing was fine, wasn’t it? As long as no one knew. As long as it didn’t become… anything more, it would be all right.

But then, just one time wouldn’t hurt anyone.

“Just let me have one birthday present that  _isn’t_  a book, Christopher Arclight.”

The journal lay forgotten as the two princes tumbled into a stall, arms locked around one another, with lips pressed together.

—-

The blade cut into Kaito’s hands, which stung and bled profusely, but it was either his hands or his throat, and his hands would heal. Chris had long since disarmed him; Kaito’s sword lay a few feet away, too far away to make a lunge for. But he had to do  _something_ , or Chris was going to slice through his hands and kill him anyway.

“Chris… please…”

Pleading would probably get him nowhere, but he knew that Chris – the Chris he loved – wouldn’t kill him. The Chris he knew was gentle. Calm.

But that Chris was dancing to the Barians’ minuet now, and how was he to know this new Chris wouldn’t hesitate to kill him?

“Even after all these years, you still can’t beat me,” Chris whispered, and Kaito grunted in pain as the blade pressed harder into the palms of his hands. His gloves were soaked with blood, hanging in tatters; his white coat was covered in mud and dust and blood. “Even after all these years, you’re weak.”

Kaito tried to slide along the wall, but Chris pressed himself closer, and Kaito found himself unable to move. “Chris, what are you doing? Why are you hurting me?”

The blade slackened just enough to keep from carving into Kaito’s bones, and Chris’s expression softened enough for Kaito to see a little of the old Chris again.  _He doesn’t want to do this._  The thought reassured Kaito none at all.

“You’re working with  _them_.”

“Chris, I’m not working with the Barians, you know that-”

“Not the Barians,” Chris hissed, and the pressure returned. Kaito cringed and ground his teeth. “The half-breeds. You let Astral escape.”

“Astral can save Haruto,” Kaito whispered.

“ _Haruto_?” Chris finally pulled back and Kaito slumped against the wall. “Haruto? What of my father, what of  _my_ family? Do they not matter, Kaito?” He spat the name out like it was spoiled wine. “Your kingdom is free, but my family kneels to the Barians out of necessity. Do you think I like smiling and bowing to them? Do you think I  _like_ seeing my brothers afraid for their souls?” He knelt down and picked up Kaito’s sword.

There was a spike of pain, and Kaito grunted and slid further down the wall, keeping himself from crying out in an attempt to keep Chris from noticing his agony. Whatever Chris was doing  _hurt_ , and Chris didn’t seem to notice, because he kept talking, but Kaito couldn’t register a word he was saying.

Finally, mercifully, Chris threw the sword at Kaito’s feet. The pain subsided as quickly as it had come, and Kaito fumbled over the cold marble floor for it. His bloody hands stung as he touched the hilt, the thick liquid making the hilt slick.

What had happened? What had caused something like that?

“Stand and fight me, Kaito.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Chris nudged the point of his sword under Kaito’s arm and tugged upward, forcing Kaito to his feet. “Weren’t you listening? My family is in danger because of  _your_  stupidity.”

Kaito’s hand throbbed. Blood dripped to the floor. “And killing me is going to accomplish what, exactly?”

Chris assumed a fighting stance, back straight, knees bent. He had a name for each of his techniques; this one was The Snake’s Strike, a move that made up for its lack of power with its accuracy and speed. He was serious, then. “The Barians control Arclight. You are their enemy. Killing you will prove my loyalty to them, and will keep my kingdom and my family safe.”

He struck.

—-

Durbe dismissed the Healer, who gave a shaky bow before hurrying out of the infirmary. She had managed to stabilize Mizael’s body temperature for the time, but he was still burning up and the trickles of sweat on his face were going to accomplish nothing to cool him down. Durbe placed a cool rag to Mizael’s forehead.

He had seen this before – it was, without a doubt, designed solely to target Barian physiology – and he knew that as a Barian, Mizael wouldn’t survive the night.

With shaky fingers, he reached for Mizael’s lapis. If Mizael were conscious, he might be able to slip back into his human form with little discomfort. But _forcing_  Mizael into his human form would be excruciating. If Mizael’s heart was failing as Durbe feared, it might kill him. But the alternative was to let the poison eat at his sweat glands and boil him from the inside. He had no choice. Being in his human form would slow the poison, would give Durbe more time to find a way to cure him.

“Please forgive me,” he murmured.

One hand grasped Mizael’s as the other pulled at the lapis embedded in Mizael’s chest.

—-

The faint clanging of swords followed Rio and Ryoga as they made their way down the parallel hallway, followed by a quickly stifled cry. Rio stopped, and Ryoga knew she recognized the voice.

“We have to go,” Ryoga said quietly, tugging on her hand, but she shook her head.

“Ryoga, he’s on our side… isn’t he? We should… help him.”

Ryoga shot a quick glance up the hall, straining his ears for movement, and heard nothing. Even the clashing of swords had stopped. “He’ll be fine. He may be a condescending, arrogant, self-important ass, but he  _is_ a skilled fighter.”

“But-”

He pulled harder on her hand and she reluctantly followed. “He wouldn’t thank us for coming back anyway. We have to find Kotori. That’s why we’re here.”

They reached the intersection of the hallways. The clanging of swords had resumed, and from here, Ryoga could make out muffled voices, though no words were distinct. The door directly ahead of them had a small label on it for  _Mihael Arclight_ , and Ryoga bit his lip in frustration. The man fighting Kaito was certainly Christopher Arclight, and if one brother fought alongside the Barians, all three probably did. The door next to it was a bath, and the one next to that seemed to be a storage room.

“Ryoga!” Rio stood a short way down the hall, pointing at the placard. “Ryoga, what the hell is this?”

Ryoga joined her and glanced at the name.

_Akari Tsukumo._

“What in the gods’ names…?”

Yuma had mentioned his sister only a few times that Ryoga could remember, and it seemed they didn’t really talk much, but he certainly hadn’t mentioned that she was at Arclight. Why would a common village woman be here? If she were a maid, she would not be in the royal bedrooms, nor would she room alone. They had passed several maids’ quarters down the hallway with the guest rooms, and two or three maids were assigned to each room. What would make this woman special?

Rio raised her eyebrows at her brother and shrugged before knocking gently at the door.

There was no response for a moment, and if he couldn’t hear muffled whispers behind the door, Ryoga would have assumed the woman was gone.

“Who’s there?” a voice finally said.

Rio licked her lips. “Friends of Yuma’s.”

The door cracked open. The woman standing there wore an expensive white dress, but it was wrinkled and stained. Her eyes gave her identity away; though not the same color as Yuma’s, they were the same shape.

“Akari?” he ventured.

“Who are you?” Her voice was sharp, demanding.

“Ryoga and Rio Kamishiro. We’re Yuma’s friends. Please, can we-”

He cut off as a woman in white and red robes nudged past Akari and threw herself into Rio’s arms. “Lady Rio! I’m so glad you’re safe.”

Rio’s bewilderment melted into relief as she hugged the Healer back. “Lady Kotori, thank the gods. We’re here to bring you-”

The clanging in the hall stopped again, and the twins froze.

“We need to get out of the hall,” Ryoga said urgently. “Can we come in?”

Akari narrowed her eyes at him but pulled open the door to allow them inside. “What’s going on down there? We heard a loud noise a couple of minutes ago.”

“We had a… run-in with one of the Arclights.” Ryoga glanced at a grey-haired woman curled up on the bed like a cat. It didn’t help that she had her skirt hiked above her knees, either. “Who’s this?”

“One of the Arclights?” Akari didn’t seem to care about the mystery woman on her bed, but she grabbed Ryoga’s shoulders. “Which one?”

Ryoga pulled back, alarmed. Yuma’s sister looked desperate for some reason. “Lord Christopher, I think, but I’ve never-”

She swore under her breath and hurried to the door, leaving the room before either twin could stop her. Ryoga held out his hands. “What the hell is going on?”

Kotori hesitated. “It’s a… long story. If you’re here… does that mean you already got Yuma and Prince Astral out?”

“Yes.” Rio reached for Kotori’s hand. “We’re here for you now, but we have to be quick, because we, um… alerted the Barians to our presence.”

From Kotori’s raised eyebrow, Ryoga knew Kotori had just figured out who had caused the powder explosion.

The woman on the bed sat up. “Are you fighting the bears?”

Ryoga shot a bewildered look at Kotori, who smiled sheepishly. “ _Barians_ , Cathy. And yes, they’re friends. They’re here to save us.”

“Good.” Cathy flopped off the bed and stretched, arching her back. “Can I take this off now?”

_Take what-_

She reached down and started to pull her skirt up.

_Oh._

“No, no, no, Cathy, please don’t take that off.” Kotori darted over and grabbed Cathy’s hands.

“But it’s itchy,” Cathy whined.

“Yes, I know, but-”

“We have to  _go_ ,” Ryoga interrupted. Where did they  _find_  this woman? “Where are the Barians?”

“Lord Durbe and General Mizael are in the infirmary down the last hall in the east wing. I’ve already been to attend them, but they’ll want me back before too long-”

 _The infirmary?_  Could Droite and Gauche have been successful after all? Could one of the lords be dying? “Good, we’re taking the west stairwell down to the dungeons.”

They hurried into the hall, which was still mercifully empty. Ryoga heard quiet arguing from where they had left Kaito, but it was now only two voices, and one was a woman’s.

Despite how much Kaito pissed him off, Ryoga hoped he wasn’t dead.

“What about Lady Akari?” Rio inquired.

“She’s fine,” Kotori said after a moment’s hesitation. “She’ll be safe here.” The look she gave Ryoga had a clear meaning.  _Ask questions later._  He didn’t press the issue. If Kotori thought Yuma’s sister would be fine in the Barians’ hands, then she would be fine.

Their footsteps echoed against the marble stairs. This stairwell seemed to be the least-used, because they didn’t encounter a single person the whole way down from the third floor to the dungeons below. It made Ryoga uncomfortable, how easy this was. Some of Kaito’s cynicism must have rubbed off on him.

“Have you seen General Gilag?” Ryoga whispered as they reached their destination.

“He was still unconscious an hour ago, but he’ll be fine,” Kotori whispered back. “Was that you? Lord Durbe was furious; I have never seen him like that bef-”

“I don’t care how angry he is,” Ryoga hissed. “He hurt-”  _Yuma_. Durbe had hurt more than Yuma, though. “He did a lot of terrible things, and the more we  _inconvenience_ him, the better.”

“I hear bears,” Cathy said suddenly. She pointed at the far stairwell. Sure enough, Ryoga could make out descending footfalls.

“Damn it.”

They reached the hidden tunnel and Ryoga slid his hands frantically along the wall for the loose stone-

_There._

He pushed it open and gestured. “Rio, you go first, in case there are any down there already. Lady Kotori… Cathy… you next.”

They slipped into the black tunnel and Ryoga slid the door closed again just as he heard the footsteps reach the bottom of the stairwell. His heart pounded as he slowly unsheathed his sword and began backing up down the tunnel.

If they’d seen the wall closing, all he could do was pray none of them were archers.

—-

He was fast, very fast. Kaito managed to catch the tip of Chris’s weapon on the side of his own blade, and stumbled into the middle of the hallway. He couldn’t let himself get trapped against the wall again, but Chris’s form was too focused, too graceful to counterattack.

“I taught you how to fight,” Chris whispered, sweeping his sword in an arc that Kaito parried with an upward jab. “You can’t beat me. I know all of your moves.”

Kaito grunted in pain as Chris’s sword slipped past Kaito’s handguard and scraped his knuckles. “I know all of your moves too.” It was a hollow remark; Kaito may have known Chris’s moves but that didn’t mean he could counter them. He could barely grip his sword anymore, and his blood loss was making him shaky.

Chris’s laugh was flat. “You’d think you’d be doing a better job countering me.”

He shouldn’t have let Chris’s taunts get to him; it would be fatal if he lost control. But Kaito’s heart ached, both physically and emotionally, and he ignored his wounded honor as he swept his foot around and caught Chris by the ankle.

“You-”

Chris managed to stay on his feet, but his attempts to rebalance his body forced him sideways just long enough for Kaito to grab him by the braid and pull him back, placing his sword to Chris’s neck.

“You dishonorable little bastard,” Chris breathed.

“What’s honor to a dead man?” Kaito whispered in his ear. He pressed the edge of the blade into Chris’s neck.

Perhaps he believed he would be satisfied at Chris’s pitiable whimper. But all he felt was despair.

He didn’t want to do this.

“You can’t, can you?” Chris’s voice was weak.

He couldn’t.

Chris tilted his head back, away from the blade, until he was staring into Kaito’s eyes. There was a familiarity in them again, and Kaito hated Chris for it because there had been nothing but anger in them until Kaito gained the advantage. He hated himself more for wanting to close that gap and kiss those lips one more time.

“Lord Chris-”

Kaito snapped out of his thoughts and dragged Chris by the hair until they were facing the end of the hall, where a woman in a white dress stood, looking terrified, her hands pulled tight against her body.

“Chris, who is this?” she demanded.

Kaito was about to ask the same question until his eyes lingered for a moment on the woman. A white silk dress, inlaid with pearls…

Chris, in fine white robes, his hair braided back.

He let go of Chris’s hair and backed away; Chris couldn’t catch himself in time and fell to the floor. The woman lifted her dress and hurried down the hall, kneeling next to him. She mumbled something to him and he patted her shoulder gently before climbing to his feet.

Kaito couldn’t move. “No,” he whispered. It wasn’t possible, was it? It had been only a few weeks. He couldn’t have… could he?

“I am well past my time,” Chris murmured. “It’s time to move on, Kaito.”

Kaito wanted to protest, but that would be childish. Chris was right, after all. Their relationship never should have gone any further than a student and his mentor, or two princes from neighboring kingdoms. That day in the stalls, the smell of horse dung and hay all around them, with their inexperienced whimpers and moans being absorbed by the heavy, humid air should never have happened. It was Chris’s responsibility to carry on the Arclight lineage, just as it was Kaito’s to carry on his own kingdom’s name.

Kaito held his free hand to the side and focused his energy on opening a portal.

Home, this time.

“Are you really their puppet now, Chris?” Kaito whispered.

“I have to do what I can to protect my family and my kingdom,” Chris replied, but his face looked about ten years older and his eyes were downcast. “I hope you do the same for yours.”

Kaito nodded as he stepped back into the portal.

Thinking of that day, that first day that started this all, reminded him of something he had long since forgotten. Ten years ago, with the destruction of the Dragoon Village, he believed it impossible. But he knew two Dragoons now.

“Goodbye, Chris.”

He was going to gain the ultimate power and burn the Barians from the planet.

—-

The Barians pulled people out of the crowd, one at a time, and searched them. When they were finished, the Barians directed the people to the platform instead of letting them back out through the gates. Nobody would get out of the courtyard until the Barians were finished.

Anna kept her head down. Those  _men_  forced her into this. All she wanted was just payment for her weapon – for a one-of-a-kind Barian killing weapon, her price wasn’t unreasonable – but not only did she lose her weapon, but she got roped into setting off a powder explosion in the palace courtyard, surrounded by Barians.

If she ever saw Ryoga Kamishiro or Kaito Tenjo again, she was going to punch them in the face. Multiple times.

Clawed hands tugged at her arm and she pushed them away. “I can stand just fine,” she muttered, straightening up and brushing her hands on her plain brown cloak. She pulled it off and held it out to the Barian who was to be searching her, and it raised an eyebrow.

“I want you to touch me as little as possible,” she said indifferently.

Her heart pounded. Maybe she was being a bit too mouthy, but at the same time, these Barians needed to know that not everyone scrambled to lick their boots just because they were creatures of nightmares and had freaky otherworldly powers.

It searched her cloak and removed a small water pouch and a handful of coins and beads. The Barian put the money in its pocket and Anna felt her anger spike again.

“Some of us have to earn an honest wage, you know,” she snapped as it felt her skirt for pockets.

“Shut up.”

“That’s theft, and I’m sure your lords wouldn’t want to hear about you stealing from honest folk-”

It straightened up and shoved her cloak back in her hands. “Shut up,” it repeated before giving her a push toward the platform and heading off for its next victim.

Anna swore under her breath –  _I’m out two days’ wages_ and _a priceless weapon now_ – and joined the growing crowd on the platform, catching a glimpse of the crabby man in her red cloak get dragged up to be checked next.

She felt bad, stealing his cloak in the confusion, but hers was nice warm wool, and she really needed to make sure they didn’t find any trace of powder in her pockets. And besides, this man had been making rude comments toward women well before the explosion went off, so he probably deserved what was coming. He protested the entire time –  _that’s not my cloak, my cloak is brown_  – but  _everyone’s_ cloak was brown except a handful, so how was he to know it was her who stole it? She’d had her hood up before the explosion, so he couldn’t identify her out of the few dozen women milling about.

Sure enough, when the Barian pulled its hand out of the inner pocket and examined the powder residue, the Barian general overseeing the search ordered him to be restrained and dragged into the palace as he cried out his innocence.

 _Better you than me_ , Anna told herself.

“Hey!” she called at the general’s retreating back. “How about letting some of us out, huh? We’re clean, right?”

His eyes lingered on her for a moment before nodding. “Those of you who have been cleared may be escorted out of the palace. Those of you who have not must stay.”

Anna couldn’t help the small smile on her face as she walked in the orderly queue out of the palace courtyard. While most of the crowd headed south, she headed north on the trail to the lake until she was out of sight before abruptly changing direction and heading east again. She had no idea where the assassins were, but at least  _she_  got out of this fiasco in one piece.

Even if now she was permanently tied to that damn fool prince and the violent half-humans.


	25. Oaths and Confessions

Mizael screamed for almost the entirety of his forced transformation.

His nails dug painfully into Durbe’s hand, but the pain was almost welcoming, was almost  _just_ for what Durbe was subjecting Mizael to. Mizael’s rough skin burned as it dissolved in sizzling tendrils, leaving behind a raw pink layer of human flesh, his center gem was ice against Durbe’s hand as he pulled it from Mizael’s chest, ripping long tendrils of nerves along with it.

Most horrifying was his face, crumbling away in rocky chunks as they turned to dust upon hitting the pillow. The only time his screaming ceased was during the painfully long transition from Barian lungs to human ones, where Mizael couldn’t breathe, and Durbe could only watch in grotesque fascination as a horizontal split appeared in Mizael’s face. Lips appeared first, then teeth, a tongue, and suddenly his screaming had resumed.

“Please forgive me,” Durbe whispered, but Mizael didn’t hear him. Durbe placed a hand on Mizael’s soft human face, stroking it gently, until Mizael’s screams subsided into shuddering gasps for air. His skin was still burning, but beads of sweat broke out on Mizael’s forehead, and it was already more moisture than he had been able to muster up in his Barian form.

Finally, Mizael’s wide blue eyes focused on Durbe. “What…”

Durbe pulled his hand from Mizael’s cheek and let out a quiet breath of relief. “I am so sorry, but I had to force you into your human body. You’ve been poisoned.”

Mizael nodded, eyes drooping. “How long?”

“It has been only a short while,” Durbe murmured. “I got you here as quickly as-”

“No.” Mizael’s head rolled over onto the pillow. “Until I die.”

Durbe clenched Mizael’s hand in both of his. “You won’t. Just rest. I’ll take care of you.”

“Are you hurt?” Durbe could barely make out Mizael’s voice.

“No,” Durbe whispered.

“I’m glad.”

Mizael fell asleep.

He didn’t know how long he stood by Mizael’s bedside, holding his sleeping general’s hand, but when the door opened and Alit entered, looking grim, Durbe knew it had to have been quite some time.

“Did you find them?” Durbe asked quietly without looking up.

Alit glanced at Mizael, his eyes lingering on Durbe’s hands. “The ones responsible for Mizael… must have escaped.”

Durbe closed his eyes. “And the powder explosion?”

“Undoubtedly them as well, making a diversion.” Alit hesitated. “We found a man with powder residue in his cloak, but he insisted that the cloak wasn’t his.”

“And you believed him?”

“The cloak belonged to a woman. A middle-class woman, possibly a merchant. It was nice wool, dyed red.”

 _Dyed wool?_ Wool was quite popular among the Heartland merchant class, especially when it was dyed. “Then our would-be assassins are from Heartland?”

“It’s a place to start.”

Durbe gazed at Mizael’s pink face, dripping with sweat. He had heard stories of an assassin couple from Heartland, a man and a woman, who killed with poison. Could Heartland be responsible for this?

 _Surely not… He wouldn’t risk being that obvious._ Heartland had more to gain from an alliance with the Barian Empire, anyway. But the Tenjo Kingdom… with the two sick sons, the one who had sold his soul… perhaps they would want revenge on the Barians.

_Is this your doing, Kaito Tenjo? Is this where you fled?_

“Is Gilag awake yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Get the Healer to administer to his concussion. I want to know who let the prince escape.”

“I will.” Alit paused and reached into his robes, pulling out a folded piece of parchment. “This came for you.” He took a deep breath. “From Baria.”

Durbe closed his eyes and reached for it with one hand, the other still gripping Mizael’s. “Who brought it?”

“Vector.”

With a feeling of dread, Durbe flipped it open. The letter was short.

_Your immediate presence is required at Baria. –Polara_

He’d expected this, but not so soon.

They would want to know what happened. Vector had doubtless told them the events of the past week, of Durbe’s failures. And now he would have to answer for them, with no time to prepare himself.

But he needed to find a way to cure Mizael. And he knew where to go. He had, after all, seen this exact poison work its way through an entire village before, killing nearly everyone in it.

But how did the assassins come by it? Very few humans ventured into the Sargasso Waste. There was little water and a mélange of venomous creatures, with so little edible food that it made going there a living nightmare.

How did they even  _hear_ of this poison?

“Alit, may I ask a favor of you?”

“Anything.”

Durbe finally pulled his hand free of Mizael’s. “Instead of getting the Healer, watch over Mizael until I return. I will see Gilag Healed and he will accompany me to Baria.”

“And when you return?”

Durbe leaned over Mizael’s shivering body and brushed his hair away from the sweat. “I will need you to come with me to the Waste.”

Alit narrowed his eyes and grabbed Durbe by the arm as Durbe straightened up. “You’re getting too involved in this.”

“Of course I am, he’s my general-”

“I know that.” Alit took a deep breath. “Durbe, you’re being… rash. This isn’t like you.” He nodded at Mizael’s sleeping form. “I think you’re letting your emotions take control, when logic is your strength.” He let go of Durbe’s arm and gestured hesitantly between Mizael and Durbe. “The other lords think there’s something going on here. Something that could undo everything we’ve worked for all these years.”

“There isn’t,” Durbe said curtly, walking past Alit to the door. His plans may have been interrupted by the Arclights and Kaito Tenjo and whoever had aided Prince Astral’s escape, but they were by no means defunct. He could adjust.

“It doesn’t  _matter_  if there isn’t,” Alit said with a humorless laugh. “All it takes is one lord to spin it against you for everything to unravel.” He shook his head. “Mizael knew what he was getting into when he swore an oath to you. So did Gilag. So did I. Don’t throw it away because you’re too  _human_ to accept necessary sacrifices.”

“I’m a Barian lord. Don’t insult me.”

“Maybe you should act like a lord, then.”

For a moment, Durbe heard Mizael’s voice in Alit’s.

They locked eyes. How unusual, for Alit to speak back to him.  _Necessary sacrifices._ He didn’t want to be king if it meant throwing away the three individuals on the planet he could trust. He opened the door.

“When you return, you will tend to Mizael. Gilag and I will go to the Waste,” Alit called after him.

Durbe paused. “I know what I’m looking for.”

“You’re also a lord, and therefore indispensable,” Alit said firmly. “Gilag and I can handle it.”

Durbe closed his eyes again. Hadn’t Mizael said something similar?  _You need to live. Fulfill your oath._  “Please take care of him, Alit.”

—-

Astral watched Yuma’s hands slide over the shaft of the lance Ryoga had left with him. It had been a couple of hours, by the position of the sun, and they had seen the powder explosion from two miles off. All they could do was wait now. Yuma was restless; he kept getting up, walking around, mumbling to himself, and he tried out a few moves with the lance. It looked heavy, and Yuma didn’t seem to feel comfortable with it.

“I was only ever really good at swordfighting,” Yuma said with a quiet laugh, settling back next to Astral. They sat in silence for what felt like another fifteen minutes before Yuma cleared his throat. “Astral, I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” As far as Astral was concerned, Yuma had done nothing to feel sorry for. He had done everything to keep his prince safe, at the cost of his own physical and emotional well-being.

Yuma leaned his head on Astral’s shoulder. “When the Arclights attacked, when the one… controlled me. I wasn’t strong enough to fight it. And I attacked you.” His body shook and it took Astral a moment to realize that Yuma was crying again.

Astral swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “Yuma, you have done more for me than anyone could.” He wiped a stream of tears from Yuma’s face. “You’re hurting, and I understand, but please, do not blame yourself.”

Yuma’s breathing slowed and Astral took his hand. He wanted to comfort Yuma, to let Yuma know things would get better, but Astral was a lousy liar and things would probably only get worse from here.

Shouldn’t the others have been back by now?

Thirty yards away, the hatch to the tunnel opened and Astral shook Yuma gently. Yuma pulled his head off Astral’s shoulder and made to stand before a figure pulled itself out of the hole. Three more followed.

“Barians,” Yuma whimpered.

Astral had only a small knife, with no idea how to use it in any practical sense, and Yuma held only a lance he was uncomfortable with. But it was obvious what the Barians were doing. If the others were in the tunnel, they would be ambushed on their way out. They wouldn’t have a chance.

Yuma bit his quivering lip and rested a hand on Astral’s shoulder. “Can you summon?”

It was such a dangerous request, this close to the palace. Summoning Hope would alert everyone in the palace right to their location – not just a handful of Barian footsoldiers, but likely the three generals and the two lords as well.

But what was the alternative?

“I can try,” Astral whispered.

He gripped his pendant and focused, expecting to feel the jolt of pure energy, the cool torrent of power rushing through his body like a waterfall, but instead, he felt… nothing.

No, not quite nothing. It was there, but just out of reach, as if there was a wall between him and the power he sought to release.

This didn’t make sense, why couldn’t he reach it?

Yuma waited anxiously, and Astral finally shook his head, hating the way Yuma’s shoulders fell, knowing that after all Yuma had done for him, he couldn’t even help Yuma this time. Yuma looked down at Ryoga’s lance before squeezing his eyes shut.

“Yuma,” Astral whispered.

“I have to protect you,” Yuma said softly, rubbing the remaining tears from his eyes. “I  _will_  protect you this time.”

Astral stood by the tree, watching helplessly as Yuma slipped through the treeline as gracefully as he could manage balancing an unfamiliar weapon. The Barians sat around the entrance, chatting in bored voices that carried all the way to Astral, and when Yuma got within striking distance, Astral offered up a small prayer for Yuma’s safety.

Yuma misjudged his first strike, which scraped against his target’s back without piercing the skin. But the Barian let out a shrill scream and fell to the ground twitching. It was a familiar motion, Astral realized, and he knew this weapon must be the Astral World’s equivalent of a Barian weapon.

The other three Barians were stunned just long enough for Yuma to swing the lance around and pierce a second one, with the same result, its screams quickly giving way to silence. The third moved out of Yuma’s intended striking range as the fourth moved behind Yuma. They were going to double-team him-

The lance was too heavy for him to wield in this situation, and Yuma dropped it before darting to the side. The Barians missed, barely, and Yuma backed up several yards under a tree, mouthing something to himself as he pulled out a single knife that Rio had left.

One of the Barians laughed. “You can’t kill us with that. Give it up and tell us where your prince is.”

Yuma’s eyes darted up. “Say hello to your god for me.”

With a fluid flick of the wrist, he tossed the knife straight up, where it knocked what looked like a pinecone from the tree. But by Yuma’s mad dash away from the tree before the knife even made contact, Astral realized what it was.

The wasps swarmed the Barians, who swore and batted at them. Yuma picked up Ryoga’s lance and waited for the Barians to swat enough wasps for Yuma to get close enough.

He thrust the lance into the back of the first Barian’s neck, and when the second scrambled away, Yuma swung it by the edge of the shaft, where it arced and cut the Barian across the lower back.

Yuma took a deep breath and fell to his knees, shaking, as the last Barian’s screams stopped.

Astral was paralyzed. He had never seen Yuma fight like that before; it was the same cool look that Ryoga had in his eyes when he fought. But now Yuma looked at the dead Barians around him and bowed his head.

“Yuma.” Astral knelt down next to him. “Are you all right?”

Yuma swallowed before nodding. “It’s like… something takes over for me when I fight. It’s the same… as back then.”

Astral pulled Yuma into an embrace, but this time, Yuma didn’t cry.

—-

“Quickly.”

Rio reached back for Kotori’s hand in the darkness. She heard footsteps a few yards back, and the unsheathing of a sword. Her own weapon was already in her free hand as she took off at a trot across the mercifully even stone walkway, tugging Kotori along behind her.

“Are you absolutely sure Lady Akari will be safe there?” Rio murmured as they hurried down the tunnel.

“Y-yes.”

Kotori’s hesitation was unconvincing until Cathy’s voice piped in.

“The tall man cut her and then cut himself and they touched their cuts together.”

Rio froze mid-trot and Kotori and Cathy both tumbled into her. She barely noticed. “They what?”

“They… were married,” Kotori said in a quaky voice.

“Christopher Arclight and Yuma’s sister were married?” Ryoga demanded.

 _They touched their cuts together._  They swore a blood oath. If the Arclights were with the Barians now, and Yuma’s sister had sworn a blood oath…

“What was the oath?” Rio’s voice was steady.

“Loyalty,” Kotori whispered.

“To?”

Kotori didn’t respond and Rio squeezed her hand.

“Baria or Arclight, Kotori?”

“They’re the same thing now.”

Silence fell. Rio knew they had to keep moving, but the thought of Yuma’s sister swearing a blood oath to the Barian Empire made her physically sick. It would break what was left of Yuma.

“Does Yuma know?” Ryoga asked, giving Cathy a little push into Kotori and Rio to get them moving again.

“No.” Kotori sounded on the verge of tears and Rio gave her hand another small squeeze.

“Good. Don’t tell him.”

Rio understood why her brother would not want Yuma to know, but she didn’t agree. “Don’t you think he has the right to know?”

“And he’ll know. Sooner or later. But for right now, he’s hurting too much to add this to his burden.”

It made sense, but Rio wondered how long it would be before Yuma was fit to hear about his sister.

“I hear something,” Cathy said suddenly.

Rio strained her ears. She could make out the faintest echoes of footsteps on stone, getting louder by the second. “Barians.”

“Hurry,” Ryoga said, and Rio picked up her pace from a light trot to a full-on run.

“What if they catch up?” Kotori said breathlessly.

“We fight. Keep as quiet as possible.”

“I hear them up there, too,” Cathy whispered.

Rio didn’t hear anything from ahead, but then, she was too preoccupied with the Barians at their backs. If there were Barians ahead, then-

 _They pinned us in here._ A two-front pinch.

Had they anticipated this all along?

“Cathy, can you fight?” Ryoga said softly.

“The bears took my knives.”

Rio heard her brother shuffle around on his belt for his spare. “Here. If they get close, don’t hold back.”

They slowed their pace to quiet their footsteps. The Barians from behind got louder; they clearly were not anticipating their targets to be ready to fight. And now she could hear the footsteps from ahead. They were soft, almost inaudible, and only about fifteen yards away. So the ones from behind were a distraction; attack from behind and draw attention away from the more obvious threat. It was the oldest tactic in the book, and had Cathy not heard them, they might have fallen right into it.

_How did they even know we were coming through this tunnel?_

As a Barian grunted in pain from behind them, the Barians to the front attacked, and Rio silently cursed that they were being forced to fight in the darkness.

Rio pushed Kotori to the ground against the filthy wall to keep her out of the way as Rio barely avoided a sword aimed at her throat. As the Barian fell forward, off-balance, she elbowed it – by the sound of it, she hit its throat – and with one deft movement, shoved her rapier into its chest. It fell, but she barely had time to check if it was still alive when she was momentarily blinded by a light filtering into the tunnel about thirty yards away.

Fortunately, it seemed the Barians had no idea what was happening either, because instead of taking advantage of Rio’s distraction, they turned back to the light.

Rio blinked furiously, making out the three figures in front of her, and swept her rapier in as wide an arc as she could make in such a narrow tunnel, felling two. The third lifted a sword breaker to intercept her final blow, and before she could twist her weapon away-

A knife sailed past Rio’s shoulder and planted itself in the base of the Barian’s neck.

It staggered against the wall and fell.

Breathing heavily, Rio turned her head, where Cathy crouched on the floor next to a body, prodding it with a skinny finger.

“They’re dead,” Cathy said as calmly as if she were talking about dinner being ready. It made Rio shiver.

“Ryoga?” a voice echoed down the tunnel, and they all turned to see Yuma climbing down the ladder. “Is everyone…?”

Kotori climbed to her feet and held herself up against the wall. “Yuma!”

Yuma smiled as she staggered for him, and wrapped her in a tight embrace. “Thank the gods you’re all right.” He glanced over her head at the other three, surrounded by dead Barians. “They were going to ambush you from above, too.”

Ryoga slid past Rio, a pained twist to his expression. “Did you… take care of them?”

The slight flinch in Yuma’s face answered the question well enough.

“It doesn’t matter,” Rio said, placing a hand on Yuma’s shoulder. “Is Prince Astral safe?”

“I’m here,” a voice called down from the top of the ladder.

Kotori pulled away from Yuma and let Rio guide her up the first few rungs of the ladder. “Did Anna come back?”

There was a short pause. “No.”

Rio felt a wave of sadness for the zealous merchant. What if she had been caught?

“She’s crafty,” Ryoga muttered. “I’m sure the Barians would rather let her go than listen to her complain all the time.” Rio nodded slowly, not completely convinced. They had reasons for needing Anna at this point. She was the only one who knew about the Barian-killing plant in Sargasso. And if they were going to need to travel the edge of the Waste, what better opportunity to acquire it? But as things were, they had no idea what the plant was or where to find it, nor could they fashion it into weapons without Anna’s help.

One by one, they filed up the ladder, prepared to leave Arclight behind for as long as they could.

—-

Night fell before Astral couldn’t move any farther, and he leaned against a scraggly cottonwood. “Are we far enough away by now?”

“There aren’t any bears coming,” Cathy said, squinting at the sky. She scampered up a tree and perched on a branch about halfway up. Kotori sighed before dragging a log into a small clearing and leaning against it.

Yuma closed his eyes and sat by a clump of sagebrush. Astral pulled himself away from the tree and knelt next to him, placing a hand on Yuma’s shoulder.

“You fought admirably,” Astral murmured. They would both certainly be dead had Yuma not fought. Astral felt a twinge of shame at his uselessness. Why had his attempt to summon Hope failed? Had the Barians done something to nullify his powers? Was there too much Baria Crystal in Arclight now for his powers to work properly?

Yuma looked up into Astral’s eyes and then glanced at the Kamishiro twins, who were organizing flat-topped stones and logs in a circle. “Does it get easier, I wonder?” he whispered. “Killing?”

There was a reluctant acceptance in his eyes now; they no longer held the helpless anguish that had defined the past few days of his life. Fear seized Astral’s heart. Had killing been the thing to bring Yuma back? Had the remedy for curing Yuma’s grief been the very thing that had caused it? Was such a thing possible?

He’d come to terms with killing, it seemed. Accepted it as part of what his life would now encompass.

Death would have been more merciful than this.

“I’m sorry, Yuma,” Astral whispered. “I can’t help you.”

Yuma nodded. He didn’t seem to expect Astral to know what to say. There were only two people who could understand what Yuma was going through, and they were now arguing over the best way to start a fire.

It was incredible, how the Kamishiros could have lost so much, could take so many lives, and still seem so… normal.

Astral returned to his feet. His robes were filthy, but the night air was chill and he didn’t feel up to cleaning his clothing this late. Especially not this close to the Waste. Who knew what could be lurking here? “Yuma, I think you need to speak with the captain.”

“What about you?”

Astral smiled at him. “I would like to speak to Lady Rio about their experience. I am afraid there are a great many things I do not understand about how they came to rescue us.”  _And why Lord Kaito was there, with the Barian’s curse on his eye._

Rio had snatched the flint from her brother and was focused on igniting the clumps of dried sage under the logs as Astral approached.

“All I’m saying is that burning this stuff will make everyone lightheaded and about ready to ascend to the Astral World,” Ryoga was arguing, prodding a stick at the smoldering sage.

“Feel free to find something else to burn, Ryoga,” Rio replied tonelessly.

“Lady Rio?” Astral said tentatively.

Rio sat back on her heels. “Yes?”

“When you’re finished with the fire, may I speak with you about your journey?”

She tilted her head and frowned for a moment. “Yes, of course.”

Astral looked over at Ryoga. “Captain, I think Yuma needs to speak with you.”

Ryoga nodded slowly. “I thought he might,” he murmured to himself, and Astral wondered if Ryoga intended anyone to hear as he approached Yuma, settling against a rock next to him. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it didn’t really matter. What they had to say was between them.

Rio finished sparking the fire and went to work getting it rolling, chatting aimlessly about their time since splitting up with Astral and his group. She would get to some points and pause, and Astral wondered how much she was holding back, and why. It didn’t make sense, why they had spent so long at the Shrine, nor did he quite understand how Ryoga came by such a fine lance.

But the news that Kaito Tenjo had sold his soul to the Barians was alarming, no matter how much Rio insisted that Kaito was on their side. How much could a man who would betray his own kingdom – his own  _race_ – be trusted? She didn’t seem to know why or how Kaito had done it. Astral couldn’t think of any reason that could justify someone giving themselves to the Barians.

Every so often, Astral would glance at Yuma and Ryoga, who were sitting close together, Ryoga explaining something while Yuma nodded slowly at the ground; other times, Astral would catch them pointing at the sky, tracing their fingers through the air, and they would be smiling.

“I haven’t seen him smile in a long time,” Rio murmured, catching Astral watching them.

“It’s nice,” Astral said quietly. “Yuma told me how the captain taught him the stars.”

Rio laughed. “Funny, Ryoga was always under the impression that Yuma was too engrossed in how they looked to remember anything he said about them.” She prodded the fire. “I’m starving, but I don’t think there’s much to eat out here.”

“Maybe Lady Cathy will be able to assist. She lived for many years on her own.” Astral stood. “I’ll go ask her to see if she can find any food for us.”

Rio nodded as Astral walked toward Cathy’s tree. As he passed Ryoga and Yuma, Yuma grabbed his sleeve. “Astral, Ryoga and I are going to collect some wild berries. We’ll be nearby in case… you need us.”

Astral met Yuma’s eyes, and knew.

“Of course,” Astral said gently. “Watch out for snakes.”

Yuma gave Astral a quick smile and Ryoga followed Yuma to his feet, eyes narrowed as he followed Yuma out of the camp.

“Prince Astral?” Kotori said sleepily. He hadn’t heard her approach. “Where are they going?”

Astral hesitated for a heartbeat. “To gather berries.”

Kotori stifled a yawn. “Do we have nothing to eat?”

“I was about to get Cathy to help get food. I think Lady Rio would enjoy your company, however.”

“Yeah.” Kotori smiled. She gave Astral a small hug, and he patted her on the back. “I’m glad we’re all back together.”

“So am I.”

_We never should have split up in the first place._

—-

Ryoga glanced at the fire flickering a little ways off. They were so exposed here, on the edge of the Waste. Yuma had no intention of gathering berries, which was obvious from the way he picked a blackberry off a bush and ate it instead of putting it in a bag. Yuma hadn’t even  _brought_  a bag. “What is it that you couldn’t say back there?”

Yuma looked at the ground and swallowed the berry. “How did you find us?”

This question could have been addressed without dragging him this far from the warmth and safety of their fire. “Kaito.”

“You trust him? A man with a Barian’s Eye?”

That same question had plagued Ryoga for the past week. But Kaito had proven that he wasn’t a liar, if nothing else. “Yes. And my trust is not easily gained, you know that.”

There was no response, and Ryoga frowned again. “Yuma, what’s really bothering you? Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine,” Yuma said, too quickly to be convincing.

Ryoga reached out and gripped Yuma tightly by the shoulder. Yuma tensed up.

“No, you’re not all right. What’s wrong?”

Yuma winced. “I don’t want to burden you with it.”

“Take off your shirt.”

“I… what?”

Ryoga gestured with his finger. “Remove your shirt and turn around.”

Yuma slowly turned, eyes squeezed shut as he gingerly peeled his shirt from his back. Ryoga let out a low hiss when he saw the angry red scars crisscrossing Yuma’s back. “Those bastards.”

“Don’t be angry with Durbe, Ryoga.” Yuma shivered slightly in the cool, dry air.

“Why the hell should I want  _anything_  less than to feel my weapon pierce his chest?”

“I don’t think he wanted to do it. He argued with Vector a lot. I heard it. Vector thought he didn’t have the heart to do what needed to be done.”

“I don’t give a damn. He still did it. If he had a shred of decency – which he doesn’t – he wouldn’t have done it.”

“I knew you would react this way. That’s why I didn’t want you to know about this.”

“You were going to keep this from me?” Ryoga’s face was lined in fury. “You have the most misguided trust in people of anyone I’ve ever met.”

“He kept my family alive even though Vector was going to kill them.”

Ryoga wondered if now would be a good time to tell Yuma that his sister had been forced to marry into the Arclight family. Worse still, she had been forced to swear a blood oath to remain loyal to Arclight, and by proxy, the Barians. Swearing a blood oath to the Barians might damn her. Breaking one would damn her for sure.

No, Yuma didn’t need to know that. The Barians had hurt him enough without having to know that his sister had been dragged into this as well.

Still, something didn’t make sense. The wounds on Yuma’s back were severe. Ryoga had seen men succumb to far less from a Barian weapon, yet Yuma barely seemed in any pain from it.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Yuma said. “I wanted to say something else.”

“What could possibly be more important than discussing the Barians?”

Yuma glanced back toward the dim fire in the scraggly treeline and licked his lips. “I wanted to thank you.”

“You just did.”

“Not just for saving me.” Yuma smiled weakly. “Though I am grateful for that. But it’s for something you taught me a long time ago.”

“Yuma-”

Yuma placed his finger on Ryoga’s lips, cutting off the annoyed response. “No, listen to me. Once, you told me that people were counting on me. That my  _kattobing_ spirit would help others. That was the only thing that got me through that ordeal. The only thing. I was going to give up, to die, and to give Durbe what he wanted in exchange for a quick death. But people were counting on me. Not just Prince Astral. Not just Cathy and Kotori. But you too.”

Ryoga opened his mouth again but froze when Yuma’s finger slid from his lips to his face.

“I had a lot of time to think about my life when I was there,” Yuma whispered, brows furrowed in thought. “About what I did in life. About what I wish I had done.”

A strange burning filled Ryoga’s chest as Yuma’s fingers tangled in his hair. He forced himself to take steadying breaths. This couldn’t be happening. He didn’t want it to happen. He was a Dragoon, a captain, and Yuma was his subordinate.

Or he was, in another life.

Their lips met, tentatively at first, but as Yuma wound his fingers through Ryoga’s hair, Ryoga’s hands pressed against Yuma’s bare chest and slid down to his waist as he tasted blackberries on Yuma’s lips. He moved closer, and their lips pressed harder, more urgently together, noses squishing together awkwardly. Neither cared.

Ryoga knew, at the back of his mind, that he shouldn’t continue this. It was wrong, it was all wrong. It went against everything he had been taught, everything he believed was right, and he felt the  _shame_  of it all.

But the burning in his chest, spreading through his body like wildfire, was so hard to fight, and that scared him more than anything. This couldn’t go on. 

After what felt an eternity, he managed to lift his hands from Yuma’s waist and placed them back on his chest, gently pushing Yuma away. Yuma breathed raggedly and ran a hand across his own face.

“I’m so sorry.”

Ryoga shook his head and swallowed. The tart blackberry juice that had lingered on Yuma’s lips now lingered on his tongue. “I wish…” He closed his eyes and let out a quiet, hollow laugh. “I can’t let… we can’t let this happen again. It’s improper.”

“Because you’re my captain.”

“Because you’re a man.”

Yuma glanced up, surprised. Ryoga looked down at the ground.

“Does that…” Yuma let out a low breath. Confusion gave way to reluctant acceptance. “I see.”

“Rio and I are the last of our race. It falls to us to either save or damn ourselves.” He remembered Mara, as he did so often lately, and the twins she had carried in her when she died, and felt a stab of regret. It was important for Yuma to understand the situation. “I can’t let myself get involved with someone who can’t…”

“Someone who can’t bear a child.”

“Please understand.”

“I do. I regret my forwardness. Forgive me.”

“You have done nothing to ask my forgiveness for.”

Ryoga helped Yuma put the shirt over the welts on his back and they walked back to the camp, picking a few handfuls of blackberries on the way. Cathy was gone, which meant it would be a few hours yet until dinner was prepared, but that gave them ample time to rest in the meantime. Yuma settled next to Astral and Ryoga returned to Rio on the other side of the fire. He let out a slow, deep breath.

“What did he want?” Rio glanced at her brother.

“We were picking blackberries.”

He could practically hear her roll her eyes. “What did he really want?”

Ryoga hesitated for a moment. “To thank me.”

Rio raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to thank you for anything.”

Ryoga watched Yuma speak to Astral, a relaxed look on his face. Ryoga understood. Despite Ryoga not returning his feelings, he must have felt a great deal more content with his decision to tell Ryoga what he felt.

“It must have been quite a heartfelt thank you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You were gone for a while.” Rio smiled shrewdly and leaned back on her blanket.

Ryoga glanced at Yuma for a second longer before following suit and lying on his own blanket. “I shouldn’t have let it get as heartfelt as it did.”

“Our race is doomed, Ryoga. I wish you would see that. The two of us are twenty-four years old, which is already much later than was expected of us to start having children, and the chance of any offspring we produce having the ability is too slim for it to make any difference.”

“I don’t want to discuss this with you again.”

She leaned over and placed her hand on his cheek. His jaw tightened. “Ryoga, don’t be so determined to be unhappy.”

“My race is nearly extinct, my king and queen are dead, my kingdom has been taken over by demons, and we’re being hunted every day. I can’t help but be unhappy.” He turned his back on her and closed his eyes.  “Get a few minutes in while we’re waiting for Cathy to return.”

He heard her sigh quietly before she followed suit.


	26. Rei Shingetsu

It was incredible how one day could set back years of careful planning.

Durbe had gone to get the Healer to help Gilag, but she was missing, and the Tsukumo woman was being unusually arrogant toward him. When he reminded her that her betrothal to Christopher Arclight was only ever intended for a political spectacle – he doubted she knew of Chris’s relationship with Kaito; Durbe had no proof to offer, though he was almost certain something had gone on between them – she announced that they had been wed in the midst of the morning’s chaos. The brothers and Rokujuro affirmed it, though the other two witnesses, the Healer and the insane woman, could hardly be counted as witnesses at all since their disappearance. They would have to have the proper ceremony again, this time with Byron and Durbe present. Chris was nowhere to be found, and Durbe gave up looking for him. There was too much going on that required his attention before he went to Baria.

The other Healer in the palace wasn’t as good as the woman had been, but he tried, and he was able to Heal Gilag’s concussion. Gilag’s first words upon waking chilled Durbe.

_It was Kaito._

At first, he thought Gilag was still disoriented; Kaito couldn’t possibly be alive after all this time, not when he had been so sick. Alit was adamant that Kaito’s heart condition had been severe. And he certainly couldn’t have gotten in undetected. But Gilag insisted on it and, waving the Healer out of the room, firmly informed Durbe that Kaito hadn’t been acting alone. It was one thing for Kaito to want to take Prince Astral’s powers for his own.

But another thing entirely when Kaito had been assisting Ryoga Kamishiro.

Gilag accompanied him through the tunnel connecting the palace to the woods a mile away, hunched over uncomplaining as Durbe silently led the way, holding a small ball of light in his palm. His robes swept through the dirt and grime, but he barely noticed.

 _Why would Kaito help the Kamishiros? Why wouldn’t Kaito attempt to use the Kamishiros as leverage to get us to help his brother?_  Nothing about the situation added up. But Gilag insisted, and Durbe trusted him. There had to be some explanation.

Durbe made out several bodies lying on the ground near the end of the tunnel. He bent down and held the light close to their faces. Barian faces; he recognized a few of them. Younger recruits, perhaps a bit overeager. Mulek, Giddon, Zemna. All from different parts of the Barian Kingdom, but all good and loyal to the Empire.

Captain Kamishiro used a lance, he knew. None of these Barians had died from anything other than knife or sword wounds.

He stepped over their bodies and ascended the ladder at the end of the tunnel, despite Gilag’s quiet insistence that he go first. Even if there was someone waiting for him outside the tunnel, at least he wouldn’t have to see another of his friends get hurt because of him.

He flinched against the mid-afternoon sun and pulled himself out of the tunnel. No one was around but four bodies lying several yards away. He let the light in his palm go out and knelt next to them. One was dead from a gaping wound in the back of his neck; this was clearly a lance, and more puzzling still was that it had been instantly cauterized. He had never seen a wound like it on a Barian. He turned the other three over, finding nothing wrong with them but gashes. They were shallow gashes, even, and should barely have slowed them.

_Could the lance have been poisoned?_

No, that would have been dishonorable for a Dragoon to poison his enemy, provided the captain’s lance was responsible for all four dead Barians. He couldn’t rule it out – a Dragoon with nothing to lose might resort to dishonorable means – but he didn’t think it likely. These wounds reminded Durbe almost of… but that was impossible; there was no Astralite crystal, no weapons designed to kill Barians the same way the Baria Crystal was utilized as a weapon to target those with Astralite blood.

“Gilag.”

His silent general approached. “Yes?”

Durbe touched a hand to the gash across one of their backs. “What kind of weapon caused these injuries?”

Gilag knelt next to Durbe and examined the bodies. His eyes narrowed as he traced a finger along the wounds, finally pulling his hand back in disgust.

“It was a lance that caused the external injuries. But I’ve never seen anything like this.” He straightened up.

“External injuries?”

Gilag gestured at the bodies. “They were killed by something that targeted their powers.”

Durbe rubbed his face. Like Mizael; only, whatever it was that had put Mizael into a near-catatonic state had killed these Barians instantly. Not poison, then, but how did a lance  _do_ this?

“Are there such things as weapons that work the same on Barians as the crystal does on Astralites?”

He glanced up at Gilag, whose brows were furrowed in concentration. “If there is, I have never heard of it.” He pointed at the bodies. “But Durbe, one other thing. The weapon – the lance – was infused with Baria Crystal as well as whatever neutralized their powers.”

Durbe’s hand clenched his robes.  _How is this possible?_

He could think of only one thing on the earth that could do what it was doing to Mizael. Someone had travelled into the Sargasso Waste, and somehow they had made a weapon out of a plant that had once killed an entire village, a weapon far more potent than the plant had been on its own.

_Was this Kazuma Tsukumo’s doing? Is this why he was in the Waste?_

“Durbe?”

Durbe exhaled slowly and loosened his grip. He needed to go to the Waste. He needed to find this plant, and he needed to use it to find a cure so he could save Mizael. Mizael had given his life and soul to Durbe, and he would not see that life wasted. He needed Mizael.

But first, he had somewhere to be, and prayed that he would be allowed to continue ruling Arclight. Tenjo and Heartland were next, and he would show them no more lenience when it came to their autonomy. They were getting too independent and needed to be brought under control before anything else went wrong.

“We need to go to Baria,” he murmured. “Will you come with me, Gilag?”

“Of course.”

Truthfully, he prayed most of all that the others wouldn’t have him executed for his ineptitude. But he couldn’t tell Gilag that.

—-

Kaito stumbled out of the portal into his bedroom at Tenjo and felt the floor crack beneath his feet. He had only enough time to register the draft behind him before the floor gave out, sending him plummeting ten feet to the room below, where he crashed painfully on a chest of drawers. He had a moment of blind panic where he could neither draw breath nor exhale, and the gaping hole where his bedroom had been was a haze above him from his dizziness. He was so numb from shock that at first, he didn’t feel the pain he knew he would be feeling soon enough. He felt hands on him and mumbled for them not to touch him, relieved at least that his breath was returning.

Someone murmured something about  _his eye_ and suddenly no one was touching him.

Kaito tried to roll over and sit up, but the pain hit him at once, and he succeeded in doing nothing but almost rolling off the chest.  _What the hell happened?_ he thought, but he must have said it out loud because a clear, authoritative voice rang out from the doorway, silencing the quiet murmurs in the room.

“That’s the question  _you_  should be answering, Kaito.”

 He turned his head and gritted his teeth against the pain. His father stood in the doorway, hand clenched on the doorknob, and everyone in the room visibly shrank back as he made his way into the room.

“Everyone out.”

There was no hesitation as the maids and servants gave clumsy bows in their haste to leave, and the last one closed the door behind her.

Kaito tried to avoid his father’s gaze but it was difficult when Faker stood over him, eyes locked on his.

“Where have you been?” Faker’s quiet voice shook with a rage that would have not been as intimidating if he had raised his voice.

With a painful push, Kaito managed to hoist himself to a sitting position, shooting pain all through his back. He was certain he’d been in more pain in the past month than he had for the entire twenty-eight years he had been alive. “Arclight.” It was, at least, mostly true.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

He finally turned his gaze on Faker’s face, and saw a hint of something masked by the anger; a barely perceptible furrow, lips pressed together a bit too much.

Faker was looking at him with fear.

“The Barians came asking for you two weeks ago,” Faker said quietly. “You were at Arclight. But you left without telling a soul where you went. Where did you go, Kaito?”

The truth was impossible to say. It would require telling his father that he had sold his soul to the Barians before turning his back and betraying them when he realized that they had lied to him. It would require telling his father that he had joined with the two last Dragoons to rescue Prince Astral, who wasn’t really dead, and Astral’s bodyguard, who knew of a weapon that could kill Barians.

It would require him to divulge that Chris had been married, and Kaito knew that if he mentioned that, he wouldn’t be able to keep his emotions under control.

Why he had trusted the Dragoons was beyond his understanding. There was something… drawing him to them.  _Fate_ , Ryoga had believed, but there was no such thing as fate. He couldn’t explain to himself why or how, but he felt a  _connection_ to the Dragoons. He sympathized with them, deep down, because they had lost their family and friends and way of life. They had nothing left but their prince and their desperate oaths to destroy the Barian race. 

Kaito couldn’t honestly answer his father, and so he remained silent.

Faker grabbed him by the collar and pulled him from the top of the chest. Kaito winced as his feet hit the ground, jarring his lower back. “You have the mark. I know you gave yourself to them.” His voice was so quiet Kaito wouldn’t have heard it had Faker not been practically breathing in his ear. “You’re filthy and have bloodstains on your clothes and your hands are shredded. Have you been fighting their battles for them?”

With the pain in his back, Kaito had almost forgotten about his hands, but Faker’s reminder alerted him to the fact that they were still bleeding from his fight with Chris. “It’s none of your concern.”

Talking back to the king would cost him, and sure enough, Faker’s hand connected painfully with Kaito’s jaw. But he couldn’t answer those questions. He had plenty of his own, beginning with why his room had caved in.

Fortunately, Faker answered his unspoken question. “Your brother was so grieved and angry that you had left without a word that he lost control and destroyed half the palace.”

Kaito’s heart pounded. “Where is he? Is he safe?”

“No thanks to your lies and secrets.”

With a futile push, Kaito tried to free himself from Faker’s grasp. “I need to see him.”

Faker tightened his grip. “Not until you’ve explained yourself.”

But Kaito wasn’t listening anymore. “Was it only this wing?”

“What?”

“That got destroyed. Was the library destroyed too?”

“Answer my questions, Kaito!”

Kaito ignored him and finally managed to pull free. “I need to see my brother. And then I’m going to the library.” He strode past his father, pain shooting through his legs and back with each stiff step, but he had to save Haruto from the Barians and to do that, he needed to do some long-overdue research. Time was running out. Durbe would have to sort through the mess Kaito and the others made at the palace, but his attention would soon turn to Kaito, and why Kaito had been working with Ryoga Kamishiro instead of the Barians that he had pledged his soul to.

—-

With any luck, Durbe would be stripped of his authority at Arclight and relegated to a solely diplomatic role in future affairs. If he had his way, Vector would make it so that Durbe would be stripped of his title altogether. How the other lords could be so blind to Durbe’s backhanded scheming, Vector would never understand. But then, they didn’t know certain things about Durbe that Vector did. Durbe had probably never even told Miza some of it; Miza would doubtless never have held Durbe’s hand through it all if he had known what Durbe had in mind for the Barian Empire.

Tragic, sad, scheming Durbe. What an interesting Barian. How fun it would be to let him think he was winning before his entire reality collapsed around him. Maybe he should have thought twice before turning on his homeland. Vector almost wished Miza would die before Durbe figured out how to save him, but Miza was as much a part of  _his_  plans as he was of Durbe’s. Miza held the key to breaking Durbe, so Vector needed the insufferable general alive… for just a bit longer.

Vector traced his fingers over his smooth human face, over his soft lips and chin. What a peculiar sensation. He’d forgotten what being a human felt like. It was a weak body, small and thin and childish, with a mop of hair that reminded him of fire. But it was a friendly face, and it took no effort at all to adopt a simpering chirp. It took even less effort to cast an illusion across his face to make his eyes brighter in color and wider.

The other lords didn’t know where he was going, but they didn’t ask. Perhaps they thought he was mildly insane and didn’t care to monitor him. Comparatively, Durbe had wasted so much time pretending to be a good and loyal leader that even his smallest screw-ups were scrutinized. Only Durbe seemed to realize that Vector was playing the other lords just as much as Durbe was, except Durbe got all the blame and focus because he  _tried_. He tried  _so hard_. It was almost sad to see him fail so badly. Vector’s plans were all smoothly sailing. It was all very satisfying, and when he set his last plan in motion… The other fools would have to acquiesce. Vector would rule the Seven Lords, and Durbe would no longer be one of them. Stubborn, brilliant, altruistic,  _virtuous_ Durbe… was Vector’s biggest obstacle.

No, no, not  _Vector_ , he reminded himself. He was no longer Vector.

He led his horse through the hard-packed dirt of the outer Sargasso Waste. It wasn’t difficult to figure out where Prince Astral was headed. The tunnel had led straight to the outer edge of the Waste. He’d set this whole thing up from the beginning. His plans were perfect, and the little human sheep would follow along without realizing that they were playing his game.

Sure enough, he spotted a group of people wandering through the exposed wasteland, and he smiled. Such a strange sensation, this human mouth. He’d have to get used to expressing himself with it rather than his eyes. He didn’t want to give himself away too early.

He straightened his purple tunic, gave his bright orange robes a tug, and began singing.

 _Up in the mountains of Heartland_  
Lived an animalistic band  
Who dressed like wolves and cats  
And ate everything from bears to rats-

He didn’t get very far before he was close enough to see the nervousness on their faces, the fury in Captain Kamishiro’s eyes. It was almost satisfying when the captain leveled his lance at the noisy newcomer on horseback.

Demands, demands,  _who are you, what are you doing in the Waste_  – and he wanted to roll his eyes because he couldn’t believe that these humans would have this much audacity.

But he played his part, holding his hands out in front of him and flinching away from the lance pointed at his chest, and he whimpered out quiet responses.

_I’m just a traveler, just a bard-_

The captain didn’t seem to buy it and he pulled the bard from the back of the horse by the front of his robes and placed the lance tip at his throat.  _How dare this vile human touch me-_

“Please don’t hurt me,” he whimpered instead, feeling the tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

“Who are you?” the captain demanded again, and Vector had his new name all picked out.

“I’m Rei Shingetsu.”

He was ready for each of the captain’s questions –  _where are you from, what are you doing here_ – and each answer –  _Heartland, just passing through to visit some ancient ruins for inspiration_ – seemed to satisfy Yuma Tsukumo, who rested a hand on the captain’s.

“I don’t think he means us any harm,” Yuma murmured.

“He looks harmless,” the Dragoon woman said indifferently.

“He could be allied with the Barians. We should still kill him.”

Vector –  _no, my name is Shingetsu_ – resisted rolling his eyes with difficulty. Typical bloodthirsty half-human. Instead he let out a convincingly terrified whimper and covered his eyes. “I just wanted inspiration! You can have all my food and supplies, just please don’t kill me!”

He heard Prince Astral mutter something to the Healer woman about  _he thinks we’re bandits_  and the captain finally lowered his weapon and released Shingetsu’s cloak.

They tied him up and sat him next to the horse as they deliberated what to do with him for nearly ten minutes, and he idly drew pictures in the dirt with his foot until they reached a consensus.

“We’ll have your supplies,” the captain warned, “and you can come with us until we get somewhere we can leave you, but if you give any hint that you’re about to give us away, or that you’re working with the Barians, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

Shingetsu nodded frantically and whimpered out his thanks but Vector laughed.  

—-

With a shaking hand, Durbe pushed the door open and walked into the audience chamber. The other lords were already waiting, minus Vector. Durbe gazed at Vector’s vacant seat for a moment before turning his attention to Polara, sitting in green wool robes. She gestured to him to kneel, and he felt his face flush.

“Am I being tried or am I your equal?” he demanded.

“Just kneel, Durbe.” Alasco rested his fist on his chin and sounded bored.

Durbe pulled his shoulders back. “I will not. I am a lord. I will not kneel to another.”

He saw Ilya cover a grin with a small hand as she glanced over at Koche, who merely raised his eyebrows. “Well, he’s right. He’s  _not_ being tried, merely questioned and disciplined.”

As simpering as Ilya was, Durbe couldn’t help but feel glad that she usually took his side, particularly since Alasco and Pherka rarely did, and Vector never did. He was about to ask where Vector was when Polara waved her hand dismissively.

“Fine, we’ll just get started then. Durbe, we understand that Vector allowed you to oversee the attempted extraction of Prince Astral’s powers. Why did this fail?”

 _Of course_. Vector  _would_ be playing this up as Durbe’s fault. “His pendant rejected our touch.”

“What of the humans? Could they not touch it?”

“No.”

Alasco rolled his eyes and Durbe watched him carefully. Alasco was more dangerous than Vector sometimes. His words carried more weight than Vector’s, as they all seemed to think Vector was unstable. “Did you attempt to force Prince Astral to remove it?”

Durbe closed his eyes. “I… tried. I hurt Yuma Tsukumo in an effort to demoralize Astral into removing it. Humans react irrationally when the people they love are hurt in front of them.”

“But it didn’t work?” Pherka pressed.

“Obviously.”

“Be careful with your tone, Durbe,” Polara warned. “What happened this morning?”

Durbe shook his head. He didn’t even know, exactly, but the others could never know that he had lost control over Kaito Tenjo. They would never let him have the kingdom or Haruto, and he needed both, even if it cost him Arclight. He tried his best to explain the events of the morning – had it been only less than half a day? – but faltered at the assassination attempt. All he could feel was Mizael’s burning body, all he could hear were Mizael’s anguished screams as Durbe tried to slow the poison.

Koche leaned forward. “Someone attempted to murder you in the confusion?”

“They hit my general,” Durbe repeated firmly. “I’m more concerned about his life at the moment.”

“Something doesn’t make sense here.” Alasco straightened up. “Prince Astral and Yuma Tsukumo were already out of the palace when this happened. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

Alasco lifted an eyebrow. “So you’re saying that two completely different groups of people attempted to use the execution for two entirely different reasons and you were unable to stop either?”

“No.” Durbe shifted his weight. He had to be careful not to mention Kaito. “When Gilag awoke, he told me that Ryoga Kamishiro was responsible for attacking him. Doubtless the Dragoons were responsible for Astral. I have no more doubts that they returned to the palace to rescue the Healer. She went missing right after.”

Polara’s face was unreadable as she leaned back and gazed at the crystals hovering along the wall. “How did the Kamishiros find a way into the palace in the first place? And if they were responsible, they could never have done all of this on their own. They must have had help.” She folded her hands on her lap. “Someone who knew the palace intimately.”

 _How much do they suspect?_ But Durbe figured this into his defense. He didn’t like having to lie, let alone to drag a kingdom that might be completely uninvolved in the whole affair into it. But he had no choice. “I think that there were assassins from Heartland involved.”

He watched Alasco out of his peripheral. While the other lords looked surprised, Alasco barely blinked. If there were assassins involved, could one of the lords have been responsible? Alasco had never liked Durbe, had always called for Durbe to be demoted… but surely he wouldn’t go as far as this?

“My, my,” Ilya murmured. “That’s a dangerous thing to assume. But we can’t punish the whole kingdom for the act of a couple of mercenaries, can we?”

Silence fell. Durbe felt the blood rushing through his body and discreetly gripped his robes to keep his hands steady. He needed to leave, to help Mizael. But he didn’t want to speak first.

Pherka broke the silence first. “Since this is your mess, you should clean it up, Durbe.”

“Agreed,” Koche said. “We should give you a couple of months to sort it out.”

Polara nodded slowly. “Two months should suffice. In that time, if you can recapture Prince Astral and the Kamishiros, you will be forgiven.” Durbe barely had time to exhale and nod before Polara finished. “If you do not, we will take the kingdoms from you. You will be demoted.”

Two months was hardly enough time to do everything Durbe needed to do. His mental list of tasks to accomplish would take him at least six months to complete, more if he lost Mizael.

He couldn’t lose Mizael. With Mizael back in decent health, they would have to start with Tenjo. Tapping Haruto’s power was more important to his plans than anything else.

With a stiff bow, Durbe turned and left the room. The moment he closed the door, he slumped against the wall and closed his eyes again. He lifted his hand to his face and allowed himself a moment to fight back the burning tears slipping onto his cheeks. 

For the first time in decades, he wasn’t sure he would be able to save his homeland.


	27. Lost Fragments

The pale-faced boy in the bed didn’t stir as Kaito sat next to him on the edge of the bed and touched his face. It was burning, but Haruto didn’t seem to be sweating.

“Will he be okay?” he quietly asked the Healer sitting on the other side of the bed.

“There doesn’t seem to be anything physically wrong with him, my lord,” the Healer murmured. She dabbed a damp cloth on Haruto’s forehead and refused to look up at Kaito. “His heartbeat is normal, his internal temperature is only marginally higher than average…so whatever caused this had no adverse physical effects.”

Something made his brother unconscious; how was that not an adverse physical effect? But Kaito didn’t press the issue. He wasn’t a Healer and couldn’t know what she could when she filtered her energy into Haruto’s body.

“When will he wake up?”

She looked up. Her eyes lingered on his mark for a moment too long before she tore them away again and resumed cooling Haruto’s face. “It could be hours, it could be days. I cannot tell. I am sorry, my lord.”

Kaito closed his eyes and gave Haruto’s hand a squeeze. “Let me know when he wakes.”  _I have much to explain to him and so much to apologize for._

“Yes, my lord.”

—-

It had been months since Kaito had bothered setting foot in the library. The ceiling was too high, the stain-glass windows too wide, the chairs too stiff, and the whole place felt more like a cathedral than a comfortable place to relax and study. He didn’t feel comfortable in cathedrals either, though his father dragged him and Haruto to one twice a year for penance. His sins had always felt too great for true repentance; as a child, he dreaded the seven strikes on his back that the high priest would perform – to represent the seven planes of the Astral World – but from his eighteenth birthday on, it never felt like enough. Certainly now, nothing could absolve him of his sins. He had no soul to save.

The librarian looked up from a large book and scrambled to his feet as Kaito paused, pulling his filthy cloak around his body. “Lord Kaito…? I-I didn’t expect to see…” His eyes swept over Kaito’s torn clothing and focused on the mark around his eye. Kaito wished people would stop staring at it. He didn’t need more reminders of his sin.

Kaito waved his free hand dismissively. “Nobody expected to see me, Master Ukyo. I’ve been… busy.”

It was the most ridiculous understatement he’d ever come up with, and judging by the grimace in Ukyo’s face, the librarian knew it, but he was a dutiful palace staff member and didn’t question it. “Well, it is good to see you are in good…” He trailed off awkwardly and cleared his throat. “It is good to see you safe, Lord Kaito.”

The catch was a bit too late, and Kaito wanted to laugh at the intended  _good health_  because he was as far from in good health as it was possible to be without actually being dead. “Yes, thank you. I have a few questions. Can we sit? Somewhere we won’t be interrupted?”

It was a silly request, as few people ever bothered to use the library, but Ukyo gave a short bow and showed Kaito to a table nestled behind some towering shelves under a painting of the swirling blue planes of the Astral World.

He couldn’t help but smile; maybe he threw away his faith and his religion, but he hoped that if they were on humanity’s side, the gods would be merciful and make this search easy. He lowered himself into his hard wooden chair and his smile became a grimace as the pain shot from his tailbone all the way up his spine.

“My lord?” Ukyo said hesitantly as Kaito squeezed his eyes shut. “Is something wrong?”

“Mm.” Kaito let out a slow breath. “Could you bring me a cushion?”

When Kaito was situated as comfortably as he could be given the circumstances, Ukyo folded his hands in front of him and cleared his throat. “Is there something you needed me to find you, my lord?”

_And say I uncover the complete legend, if that’s even what this is. What do I do with it?_

_You become the master of Galaxy Eyes, and gain all its power._

“About ten years ago, I put a small journal in here,” Kaito murmured. “Unless someone moved it, it should be in the languages section.”

Ukyo’s confusion intensified, but he inclined his head and headed toward the far end of the library. While he waited, Kaito shifted on his cushion and rubbed his chest. It was hurting again; emotional, physical, he couldn’t tell, but he took a series of calm breaths and wished for some of the assassin woman’s herbs. He wondered fleetingly if they had been successful. He would know when the Barians arrived in his kingdom, he supposed.

Ukyo set the small journal on the table, followed by a larger tome. “Forgive me, but I glanced through it. I thought perhaps you needed something to help you translate.”

Kaito nodded and pulled a pen and inkwell close. “Thank you.”

He opened the journal but paused with his pen above the title. Ukyo was still standing there, watching him. He raised a questioning eyebrow and Ukyo looked down.

“If I may, my lord, I am… familiar with both the Astral and Barian written languages.”

It was tempting, and would save Kaito time that he barely had. His own familiarity with the Astral language was limited to treatises and religious texts; with the Barian, it was limited to the alphabet. But how far could he trust Ukyo not to tell the Barians should they ever question him about Kaito’s activities?

In the end, Kaito’s need for haste outweighed his caution, and he motioned for Ukyo to sit next to him.

“Do you know any of the Dragoon language?” Kaito asked.

The frown on the librarian’s face more than answered his question, and Kaito felt a wave of disappointment. “I’m sorry, my lord. The Dragoon language is a dead language, and even when it was still used, the Dragoons never shared it with outsiders. They’re a proud and… arrogant race. Secretive, believing their existence to be of the gods. Or, rather,” he amended after a beat, “they _were_.”

Kaito couldn’t argue with that. “There were three Dragoons who survived the genocide. They took refuge at the Astral Palace.” He waited to see what Ukyo’s expression would be.

Ukyo idly turned a page of the journal and narrowed his eyes at the pictographs. “One died last year during the Barian takeover of Arclight. The other two are the most wanted people in the Barian Empire. Even if you had any idea where they were, there’s virtually no chance they would help you, especially since-” He took a sharp breath and placed a hand to his mouth, eyes widening. “Please forgive me, Lord Kaito. That was well out of my place.”

The words stung, but Kaito figured he should get used to it. People staring at his mark, people talking about him in whispers in the halls, people questioning his loyalty to his kingdom, to his  _race_ …

He was well within his rights to punish Ukyo for speaking against him. “Is there a way to get rid of this?” he said instead, touching the mark.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Ukyo murmured, staring fearfully at the page. “Once you have the mark, it cannot be erased.”

That couldn’t be true. The Arclights had all done the same, and none of them wore a mark. Was it possible that the failed extraction was responsible? That somehow failing to produce a soul gem had given him the marking?

His people would never allow him to rule as long as he bore it. He would never be king. And with Haruto’s illness, it was not only probable but likely that the Tenjo reign was going to end with Faker’s death. A succession crisis was inevitable, unless the Barians took control. Which meant everything he had done was in vain.

Kaito let out a low, frustrated breath as he settled back in his chair. This was his last chance. “Let’s get this translated, then.”

Ukyo copied the Barian text onto a separate piece of parchment and went to work translating, pausing only briefly to consult the texts he had brought. Kaito was much slower translating the Astral text. It was written in a formal, almost archaic form, nothing at all like the documents he had grown up reading. But he had grown up hearing the story of the Dragon of the Galaxies; it was Haruto’s favorite story. This was similar, but from what he could manage to make out, it had key differences.

His heart raced and he had to clench his hand to keep it steady. What if these three legends, from three different cultures, were parts of a whole legend, incomplete until they could be brought together?

The legend might have been thought lost to the ages with the destruction of the Dragoon race, but Ryoga and Rio surely knew the legend, or could translate it for him. He would have to find them again, and they would be able to complete it. They couldn’t complain; they owed him for his actions at Arclight. And anything they could do to combat the Barians would be welcome.

Ukyo paused at the end of his section and set his pen down. “My lord, if I may…”

“What is it?”

He licked his lips. “My lord, why are you so insistent that we translate a legend?”

Kaito glanced up, halfway through translating a particularly difficult passage with an untranslatable word. “All legends have basis in fact, don’t they?”

Ukyo cleared his throat gently. “That’s not necessarily…” He looked down again, abashed. “People have been chasing this particular legend for centuries.”

“I know.” Kaito set down his pen. “But they have had only fragments of the legend.” He turned the pages until he reached the Dragoon symbols. “No one has ever translated this part, except the Dragoons. If I can find the last two, I can complete the legend.”

“About that.” Ukyo folded his hands. “The Dragoons never shared their culture with outsiders. It was, as far as I am aware, against their code.” He tapped the book. “But one Dragoon must have. They violated an ancient custom. It would have been an act of unthinkable desperation.” He sighed and rubbed his face, smearing a bit of ink into his bangs. “What I’m trying to say is, where did you acquire this book, my lord?”

Kaito understood his meaning before he asked the last question. Chris would never have purposely given him false translations, would he? “Christopher Arclight gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday.”

“Ah.” Ukyo frowned in thought. “Where did Lord Christopher acquire it, then?”

Kaito had to look away to hide the faint blush in his face. He had been too preoccupied to ask what should have been his first question about the journal. “I never asked.”

Ukyo mercifully didn’t press the issue. Kaito might have been able to write it off as skepticism or youthful ignorance that prevented him from questioning the gift, but he would rather not think about those days. “Your eighteenth birthday, you said? That would have been about a month before the Barians invaded the Dragoon village.”

“That was part of the reason I never pursued this until now.”

 “No, I think…” Ukyo’s lips pressed together. It took him almost thirty seconds to figure out what he wanted to say. Kaito waited. “I think,” he said finally, “that there’s one of two possibilities here. One, these Dragoon pictographs are fake.”

The thought had crossed Kaito’s mind as well. “The second?”

“That someone in the Dragoon village knew of the impending attack and shared forbidden knowledge with an outsider in an effort to save a bit of the culture.”

The thought of someone knowing about the inevitable destruction of their village and doing nothing to stop it was unfathomable to Kaito, especially where the Dragoons were concerned. “I read once that Dragoons exile those who do not carry the gene, or those who… don’t conform. Couldn’t one of them have shared?”

Ukyo gave a humorless chuckle. “By the age of ten, Dragoon children have manifested their gene. Those who have not are not taught the language. In the twenty-five years leading up to the attack, only two of-age Dragoons had been exiled for moral sins. One committed suicide in his shame shortly after the exile.”

 _What a toxic culture_. “What of the other?”

“He died of alcoholism, if I recall correctly. Scholars had begged him to share the language, but he said he was never proficient at it. What little we do know of Dragoons comes from him and others like him. But none of them either would or could share the language.”

How frustrating. Kaito wondered for a moment if the Kamishiros retained any of their knowledge after ten years of dedicating their lives to the Astral Kingdom.

He couldn’t dwell on that. Surely they recognized the importance of holding to their culture, and that included their language. “Well, I suppose I’ll figure out what to do about the Dragoon portion at a later time. Have you completed your translation?”

Ukyo frowned. “Yes. It is  _similar_  to the legend we all grew up hearing, but… different. Like it’s another stanza.”

That was it; Kaito’s suspicions about the three legends being fragments of a whole were looking more probable now. “Let me read it.” Ukyo slid the paper over and Kaito peered at the neat, small writing.

 _Twins clash but only one can survive,_  
The destructive power of the Astral World, the key  
To unlock the power of the Dragon.  
The soul laden with sin,  
A weary traveler approaches the River of the Gods  
Seeking penance, offering a stained soul  
Laying Waste to corruption and pain  
Fire burns, the wielder’s sword strikes down the Gods  
And as he wields his Sword  
Another God is born.

The bit about the penance and the power of the Astral World being the key to unlocking the Dragon’s power were familiar. The part about the Dragon striking down the gods and raising up a new one, however, made Kaito uncomfortable. If this was the only legend Barian children grew up hearing, it was very possible they believed the Barians were destined to destroy the gods of Astral World and lift up their god to rule the world.

It wasn’t even stylistically pleasing compared to the legend he had grown up with, but Ukyo answered before he could mention it. “It rhymes in Barian, but this was the most literal translation I could come up with.”

Kaito looked down at his half-completed translation. The syntax was too complicated for him, and as much as he appreciated Ukyo translating the Barian portion, he couldn’t risk Ukyo also reading the Astralite legend. Should his kingdom be overtaken by the Barians, it was better for Ukyo to know as little as possible. “Thank you for your help, Master Ukyo. I have to leave for a short while.”

Ukyo opened his mouth to say something, but thought the better of it at the last moment. “Good luck, whatever it is, Lord Kaito.”

Kaito grabbed the journal and pulled himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain in his back. It had been only one day. The Kamishiros couldn’t have gotten too far, and the only place for them to have gone was east, toward the Sargasso Waste.

—-

Instead of mountains and a crystal lake, it was a high desert at sunset, with striated layers of red rocks and bristly trees and shrubs. As he picked himself up off the rocky, dusty ground, Astral wondered if next time he would wake up in the midst of endless grasslands.

“Welcome back, Prince Astral.”

Astral brushed his robes, but it was out of habit more than anything. Here, his robes were fine blue silks, free from imperfections. “Why have I been brought here?”

Rabelais’s face was unreadable. It wasn’t as though Astral expected much from them. “Have you given any thought to what I suggested last time we spoke?”

“About focusing my powers? No, I was too busy watching my friends being tortured by the Barian lords.”

“Cynicism does not suit you, Prince Astral.” Rabelais turned and glided down the dusty path. It was obvious Astral was meant to follow, so he did. “You will unlock your powers to their full extent soon enough. But I mean your association with the Dragoons and the Tsukumo man.”

“I owe my life to them,” Astral replied stiffly. “I do not see why I should be distrustful of my friends.”

“Naturally. But you do not see what we see.” The path wound up through a cluster of junipers near a shallow, winding stream. Somehow, everything remained perfectly level as Rabelais walked. They exerted such perfect control over the low planes.

“I do not understand.”

Rabelais paused by a creosote bush and touched a few of the tiny yellow flowers. “You saw into Yuma Tsukumo’s memories. You have witnessed the Kamishiro siblings’ rage. They are dangerous.” Rabelais turned their head back toward Astral. “Do they not frighten you, deep down?”

Astral looked out at the towering buttes, the red and orange layers blending with the gold and purple desert sunset. “They are all I have left.” It wasn’t a good answer; it wasn’t a satisfactory answer. Rabelais turned away again and resumed their walk.

“The Sargasso Waste is a dangerous place,” Rabelais said, and the sudden change in conversation took Astral aback. “If you are not careful, it can be deadly.”

“We are not venturing very far in,” Astral argued. “Just enough to get around the Barian blockades.”

Rabelais made a noise that Astral might have mistaken for a laugh had he not known Rabelais had no sense of humor. “The Sargasso Waste holds many secrets.”

“Secrets of what?”

The high desert scenery shifted seamlessly into a low desert; the junipers melted into scraggly brush and barrel cacti, and the adjacent meandering stream vanished completely, replaced by a small pool shaded weakly by thorny, low-hanging acacia.

“The Seven Barian Lords have their secrets,” Rabelais said, gazing out at the endless desert stretched before them. “Their secrets are the keys to their destruction.”

Nothing about this conversation made sense to Astral. He stared at the back of Rabelais’s head, eyes narrowed. If the gods thought they were being helpful, they were mistaken.

_The Dragon nears its awakening._

Astral looked around, startled. “What?”

Rabelais turned. “I said nothing.” They glanced to the side and back to Astral. “Perhaps you are hearing the voices of your… friends. The connection to the Astral Plane may be weak.”

Astral was certain that none of his friends had spoken to him. If they had, they certainly hadn’t said what he’d heard.

_The world will soon burn._

He kept his face calm this time. He didn’t want to alert Rabelais to the fact that there seemed to be another god talking to him. Maybe it wasn’t even a god.

_The soulless sinner can only be saved by the power of the gods._

“I think I should wake now,” Astral murmured. His heart raced.

“Remember my admonition,” Rabelais said, and Astral jerked awake.

Yuma was bending close to him, hand on Astral’s forearm. “Are you okay?”

Astral took several steadying breaths. It was sunset here, and the scenery was unpleasantly familiar; red and orange buttes in the distance, shrubs and gnarled trees dotted the landscape. A fire was going, and Cathy was roasting a skinned jackrabbit over it. The Kamishiros and Kotori sat together, talking in low voices, and Shingetsu sat a little ways off on his own, legs pulled up to his chest.

“We need to go into the Waste,” Astral mumbled, and Yuma’s grip tightened.

The gods may have been cryptic, but they never outright lied to him. If Rabelais wanted them to go to the Waste, if they thought the secret to defeating the Barians was there, then Astral was sure that was where they needed to go.

—-

They had never failed a mission before.

Escaping the palace had been simple enough; climbing through an unlocked window and through the palace unnoticed was made possible by the explosion and ensuing chaos. The Barians had locked the gate to the courtyard, but the windows to the outer walls of the palace were not only unlocked, but unwatched. All the sentries had been focused on the inner courtyard.

Droite held a small, nearly empty vial of greenish liquid, her eyes contemplative. She got like this sometimes, when missions didn’t go as well as planned. Gauche didn’t like seeing her upset. “What is this, Gauche?”

Gauche shook his head. “Heartland has his reasons for giving it to us, whatever it is. Probably something specifically to kill Barians. Normal poisons don’t work so well on them.” They’d learned that the hard way, but they didn’t survive seven years in this profession without adapting.

She let out a frustrated sigh and replaced the vial in her cloak pocket. “We hardly have any left, Gauche. What do we do now?”

He had been wondering that same thing. They could return to Heartland and let the king know they had failed, and maybe he would show leniency, and perhaps give them more of the poison to try again. He would know soon enough, when Durbe arrived at the palace to demand control of the kingdom. They could escape. Life as renegade mercenaries had a romantic feel to it. But they would be hunted, and that didn’t appeal much to him.

Before he could work up an answer, Droite looked up in alarm and pulled out a few throwing knives. She was halfway through throwing one when Gauche caught her arm.

The merchant woman – Anna – walked into view from behind some tall scrub brush, waving a hand cordially. Droite scowled and returned the knives to her belt.

“I followed the light of your fire,” Anna said without preamble. “You should be careful when setting up camp in sparsely sheltered areas. I thought people like you would have known better.”

 _Mouthy as ever._  “There’s not a lot of choice,” Gauche grunted. “The waterways are all blocked and this is the only available route that doesn’t lead to dens of giant scorpions.”

But Droite was looking at Anna with an odd expression; she seemed almost glad to see the merchant all of a sudden. “You said when we first met that you had gone into the Waste to find a Barian-killing plant?”

Anna, halfway through sitting on a rock opposite the fire to the assassins, froze. “What?”

“This.” Droite pulled the vial back out of her cloak. “This had some of the plant in it, right?”

“I don’t…” Anna faltered at the looks on their faces and lowered herself to the rock. She closed her eyes for a moment, uttered a quiet prayer, and held out a hand. She uncorked it and sniffed it gingerly before holding it up to the light of the fire. “Yeah. That’s it.”

Maybe they didn’t have to return to Heartland for more after all. “Where do we find more?”

“I am not going back in that desert,” Anna blurted, eyes wide. “That village is scary. Dozens of Barians died there. The whole village.”

Gauche rolled his eyes. “We know. You’ve told us. But you’re not going alone.”

Anna screamed through her tightly closed mouth. “What the hell is wrong with you people? Are you all insane? Are you all  _actually_ insane? There are still bones littering that village, still depleted soul gems lying everywhere. Nobody in thirty years saw fit to bury most of the bodies.”

“Maybe the Barians don’t care about it,” Gauche suggested, but Anna waved her hands frantically.

“No, no, you people don’t  _get_ it! That village is haunted!”

It was Droite’s turn to roll her eyes. “Superstitious nonsen-”

“It is  _not_  superstitious nonsense!” Anna was back on her feet, pointing at the pair of them wildly. “I could care less about religion and spirits and all that, but… I heard them myself, when I was there a few years ago. Whispers, cries of pain; I could  _feel_ it, feel… something horrible.” She shuddered. “The spirits are restless.”

Despite himself, Gauche was curious. “What did they whisper?”

Anna turned her back on them. For a moment, Gauche thought she would refuse to answer. He exchanged a skeptical look with Droite, who lifted an eyebrow and shrugged. And then, Anna’s voice, so quiet they could barely hear it, finally replied.

“They want justice.”

It wasn’t quite what Gauche was expecting. Barians, wanting justice? It was a laughable thought. “Justice for what?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was hoarse and breaking. “All I know is that something horrible happened in that village, and the dead demand it.”

It didn’t add up; if all that had happened was that some plant made its way into the water supply, what reason would they have to want retribution? “Are you saying the villagers were poisoned intentionally?”

Anna turned slowly. “I think it was much worse than that.”

Silence fell. Droite stared into the fire, eyes narrowed. If she was up for it, Gauche was. But he let her ponder it for a moment longer.

“The dead have no qualms with us,” she muttered. “We’re going to the Waste to find some of this plant.” She stood and Anna took a step back. “And you’ll show us the way.”


	28. Justice

Storm clouds that had hovered over Arclight just yesterday now raged throughout Heartland. The king had never seen anything like it before; clouds moved from west to east. It never changed. But these clouds, apart from being filled with deafening thunder and forks of lightning that came dangerously close to catching his city on fire, moved from east to west.

It could only be a sign from the gods. But a sign of what?

“My lord,” a voice murmured, and Heartland turned from the window to his lieutenant, who bowed his head, eyes narrowed at the ground.

“Do you have news of what happened in Arclight yesterday, Lieutenant Okudaira?”

Okudaira shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. “General Mizael is on his deathbed.”

That didn’t make sense.“Are you sure it was the general and not Lord Durbe?”

“I’m positive, my lord. Lord Durbe is unhurt, but enraged.”

Heartland let out a frustrated sigh. It shouldn’t have been  _Mizael_. Those assassins were supposed to be the most competent in the entire kingdom. “Can it be traced back to us?”

“Lord Vector assured me it would not, because the assassins managed to get away.” Okudaira closed his eyes. He seemed troubled, and Heartland laid his hand on the young lieutenant’s shoulder in a reassuring way.

“Don’t worry, Fuya. If the assassins escaped, Durbe will never be able to pin it on us.” Fuya didn’t look entirely convinced, but he nodded at the ground.

It was unfortunate that this talented young man was such a  _moralist_. He had been adamantly opposed to assassinating Durbe, despite Vector’s claims that Durbe was the most dangerous lord. Secretive, plotting Durbe would flatten kingdoms in his conquest. Heartland had seen it in Arclight and Astral. He didn’t doubt Durbe’s cold-blooded ruthlessness.

But in the off-chance Vector was lying about something, Heartland had something to hold over Vector’s head. He didn’t trust any of the Barians, least of all an egotist like Vector, and he had made plans accordingly.

“Is there any more of the poison?”

Fuya nodded slowly. “The physician has it.”

“Good.” Heartland turned his back to the window and strode out of the parlor. “If Vector seems like he’s going to betray us, we can give him… a taste of his own medicine.”

—-

Very little moisture remained on Mizael’s hot, pallid skin.

Alit dabbed constantly at it to cool the general, but the water seemed to evaporate as soon as it touched him. Mizael’s breathing slowed throughout the night and Alit was at a loss for what to do. Durbe had been gone for much longer than he’d said he would be. Maybe he had gotten in more trouble with the lords than even he had anticipated.

The door flew open and Durbe all but ran in, Gilag at his heels, and stopped at Mizael’s bedside, reaching down with soft, quivering human fingers to brush Mizael’s bangs from his face.

“He’s getting worse,” Durbe whispered.

Alit squeezed some water on Mizael’s forehead, heart sinking. Durbe had never looked so helpless in all the years Alit had known him; his grey eyes were watery and rimmed in red, his hair unkempt and lips cracked and bleeding. One look at him was all Alit needed to know that Durbe had definitely received some very bad news from the other lords.

He usually tried to be optimistic where Durbe was concerned; Durbe had never let them down before and he always upheld an aura of authority and stability no matter how tense the situation. But he was losing control of himself lately, and that frightened Alit.

“Durbe…”

The lord shook his head, eyes closing. Tears leaked from his closed lids. “How did decades of careful planning come undone in only two hours?”

Alit glanced at Gilag, who was staring down at Durbe. “They didn’t demote you, did they?”

Durbe rubbed his eyes. “No. But unless I recapture Prince Astral, kill the last Dragoons, and force Kaito Tenjo’s hand in the next two months, I will be nothing but a farmer who dreamed of being a god.” He inhaled slowly. “I need Mizael.” Finally, he looked up at met Alit’s gaze. “I need you and Gilag. You’re the only ones I trust. Despite my failures, will you still follow me?”

“You’re not a failure,” Alit said quietly. “You’re a lord. Lift up your chin, steel yourself, and be the lord we sacrificed everything to serve.”

Physically, Durbe was the weakest Barian. His powers were not as great as the others’. Even some in the military were stronger than Durbe. But Durbe’s small body hid his brilliance. Few Barians in the history of the kingdom had accomplished in their lifetimes what Durbe had accomplished in fifteen years. It was why Alit had followed him. It was why Gilag had followed him. Durbe stood by Mizael’s side, fingers brushing the back of Mizael’s hand as he studied his dying general’s face.

Finally, he let out a shaky breath. “I have to go to Sargasso. Alit, Gilag, will one of you join me?”

Gilag exchanged a grim look with Alit. “I will go. But, if I may ask, why there?”

Durbe straightened up and lifted his chin. His face was still a mess, his hair uncombed, but his expression was hardened again. He may have exuded only a shadow of his usual authority, but at least he no longer looked like a lost child. “Many years ago, I witnessed many Barians die this way. If I can acquire just a small sample of the plant that did it, I will be able to find a way to neutralize it.”

Alit looked down at Mizael, whose breathing was becoming more labored by the minute. “If you think you can, you should hurry,” he murmured. Mizael didn’t look as though he would survive for another full day.

—-

Yuma wasn’t sure what to think of Rei Shingetsu.

He did seem harmless, and made ridiculous jokes and sang irritating songs and kept suggesting shortcuts that Ryoga refused to follow. But sometimes he would become quiet and listen to other conversations with an expression that made Yuma uncomfortable, as though he were memorizing every bit of it. As a bard, he clearly had an excellent memory. He could recite poems and legends and songs without batting an eye and he commanded vocal tone with the precision of a master.

At first, Yuma didn’t mind. Anything to break the monotony of their trek deeper into the Waste was welcome. Red and yellow snakes, foot-long centipedes, and scorpions as large as the head of a hammer were everywhere here. It was impossible to stray too far from the path without almost stepping in the den of some poisonous creature or other. Shingetsu’s positivity helped keep their mind off the dangers, even if Ryoga kept threatening under his breath to rip out the bard’s vocal cords.

It was strange, trying to have a conversation with Ryoga after their kiss. While Yuma was relieved to have broken the silence of his feelings for his former commander, the sorrow of Ryoga’s rejection weighed on him. He understood why, he truly did. But it didn’t make a year and a half’s worth of small moments – where Ryoga would smile at him and teach him the stars and spar with him, where Yuma would teach him sword form and he would teach Yuma defensive stances – any less real, and any less painful to set aside. Ryoga barely looked at Yuma now, and when he did, it was for brief seconds before he turned his head again. When they spoke, it was in short sentences.

Around mid-afternoon, Shingetsu slipped away from Cathy, who seemed relieved that he was no longer talking to her, and fell into step next to Yuma. Astral was up front, conversing with Ryoga, and Rio and Kotori were chatting on the other side of the horse. When Shingetsu had deducted that Astral was the supposedly dead heir to the Astral Kingdom’s throne, and that Yuma, Rio, and Ryoga were wanted fugitives, he couldn’t contain his excitement, asking for minute details in their escape and adventures.  _I wish to fashion it into a tale for the ages,_  he had explained. The Kamishiros wouldn’t talk to him, and Astral didn’t want to think about any of the experience, giving Shingetsu a curt reply that his parents were dead and he and his friends were being hunted by monsters, so Shingetsu naturally turned to Yuma. Yuma gave him more than the others had –  _we escaped, we split up, we were captured, imprisoned, and tortured by a Barian Lord, and we were rescued_  – which didn’t seem to appease Shingetsu. Yuma didn’t want to tell him more than that. The memories hurt too much still.

“He’s a sullen man, isn’t he?”

Yuma glanced up to see who Shingetsu was talking about. He needn’t have bothered; Shingetsu didn’t like Ryoga. The feeling was mutual. “He has a right to be.”

“How come?” Shingetsu pulled his hood up over his face to shield himself from the blazing sun. Incredible how the very climate could change so much in a day’s walk. “Like, I know he’s one of the last of the Dragoons but shouldn’t he be over that by now? It happened so long ago.”

“If all of your family and friends were murdered in front of you, I don’t think you’d forget it in a hurry,” Yuma replied quietly.

Shingetsu’s vividly purple eyes widened. “Oh! Yes, you’re right. I’m so sorry; I didn’t realize…”

“Just don’t bring it up anymore.” Yuma reached down and unfastened his canteen from his belt. “He doesn’t talk to anyone about it.”

“Not even you?”

Yuma flinched. Shingetsu didn’t seem to understand when enough was enough. “It’s none of my business either.” Ryoga had told him one night about watching his mother have her throat slit in front of him, and that was more than Yuma needed to know about the horrors inflicted on the Dragoons.

“I’m sorry,” Shingetsu said again in a quiet voice. “I just assumed that you were really close and I thought maybe he would trust you to know about how his village-”

“You assumed incorrectly,” Yuma said sharply, and Shingetsu cut off with a wince. Yuma sighed. “Look, I’m sorry but… we all have secrets we don’t want to share.”

“Even with each other?” Shingetsu waved his hand toward the others. Every one of them wore a grim expression, lips tight and heads down. “You’re all you have left, right?”

He was right. But some things were better left unsaid. “Even with each other.” He said it with finality, hoping Shingetsu would get the hint.

He didn’t. Instead, he leaned closer, studying Yuma’s face intently. “What are you all fighting for? Do you have a reason for pressing on? The Barians have taken over almost the entire continent. What can half a dozen humans possibly do to stop them now?”

It was a question Yuma had asked himself since they set off on this mission all those weeks ago. He didn’t know how to put it into words, how he would rather be doing something,  _anything_ , more than watching his kingdom suffer, no matter how fruitless it was. They had no real plan. They had no real mission or goal outside of  _stopping the Barians_ , and what did that even mean? Stop them from doing what? It was too late to stop them now. “We’re all going to die anyway,” he said finally. “Why shouldn’t we delude ourselves into thinking we can make a difference?”

Shingetsu didn’t respond. He simply rested a hand on Yuma’s shoulder for a moment before turning back to his horse.

—-

The three hour walk from the place their portals had dropped them to the village gave Durbe plenty of time to think. Gilag had apologized, but he had never been all the way to the village, and the portals never went to a place that the Barian summoning it could not visualize. Time was slipping away, but Durbe appreciated Gilag’s company. When he got too far into his own thoughts, at least he had someone to snap him back to reality.

Even thinking about Mizael lying on the infirmary bed, suffering in silence, grasped as painfully at Durbe’s heart as if he were standing over Mizael’s body. Mizael’s condition had deteriorated rapidly in the one night Durbe had been in Baria. But he was a strong Barian. He would make it. Durbe would find a way to save him. He would…

Something moved in the corner of Durbe’s peripheral and he looked up, startled to find that they had just crossed into the village square.

It was unrecognizable after thirty years of neglect. The clay and stone houses scattered throughout the low valley had cracked and crumbled in the harsh sunlight and brutal windstorms, and the small garden plots that had once sprouted scraggly bean and squash plants were almost invisible under years of sediment buildup. Durbe caught a glint of red not too far away and bent to brush the dirt from it.

As his hand brushed the depleted soul gem, he heard a voice.

_Justice._

He pulled his hand back and scrambled back, tripping over the hem of his travelling cloak. Someone grabbed him from behind and he let out a cry of alarm before realizing it was only Gilag.

“Durbe, what happened?”

Durbe’s heart raced as he pulled himself away from Gilag. His mouth was dry and he knew it had only a little to do with the hot climate. “I…” He couldn’t bring himself to tell Gilag that he was hearing things. “I found a depleted soul gem. It… frightened me, is all.”

_We were frightened too._

His eyes darted to the side. The voice spoke from every direction, or no direction, or maybe in his head-

“The water source is a couple of hours this way,” Durbe said shakily, pointing at a nearly dried-up pool in the village square, recognizable only for the dusty cobblestones arranged in a circular walkway. “We should… go back to our Barian forms. The hike is uphill through a canyon and could be danger-”

_We suffered. It hurt and you left us._

Durbe closed his eyes. “It could be dangerous.”

Gilag narrowed his eyes at Durbe in concern. “What’s going on? You look like you’ve seen-”

He didn’t want Gilag to finish that sentence. “It’s nothing. I don’t like being here. We need to hurry and collect some of the plant.” Durbe closed his eyes and placed a hand to his lapis bracelet. He would feel better, safer, in his true form. He could protect himself better than in this frail human body, at least until they made it to the water source-

But there was something wrong. The power that normally coursed through him when he changed was  _there_ , just out of reach. He tried again. It failed.

“I can’t revert,” Gilag said from behind him, and his general sounded wary now. “What’s going on?”

Durbe made the mistake of looking back at one of the nearest homes.

An opaque figure stood in front of the rotted wooden door, gazing back at Durbe with hollow silver eyes. He wore a thin, frayed tunic and pants that were cut off at his knees, and he stepped toward Durbe with bare feet.

_You left us to die._

“I didn’t,” Durbe whispered, taking a step back with each step the figure took toward him. “I tried to help you.”

“Durbe!”

_You forget us while you feast on your crystal throne._

“I did this for  _you_!” Durbe screamed, and his voice echoed through the silent valley before he turned and ran.

—-

Durbe lifted his robes as he ran. His lungs burned and each shallow breath he drew pierced his chest like a needle. He had to get away from the village. He had to make it to the water source before sunset. Then they could collect the plant and teleport out without having to set foot in the village again. Going back was not an option anymore. Not when Durbe’s memories of this place caused him such vivid hallucinations.

_Are they even hallucinations?_

He ran until his legs refused to carry him any farther, and he fell to his knees, clutching his side. He laughed wildly. How weak he had become in these years. Maybe he really had become one of  _them_ , sitting atop his throne in luxury while better Barians did his dirty work.

“Am I feeling guilty?” he choked out through labored breaths, and Gilag’s hand gripped his shoulder.

“Durbe, tell me what’s going on. You’re scaring me.”

“My greatest failure.” Durbe pushed himself to his knees and gripped Gilag to support him as he stood on leaden legs. “I can’t let it happen again. We have… to save Mizael…”

He tried to keep walking but his legs barely moved. He shouldn’t have run. Getting away from the hallucination – or ghost, or spirit, or whatever supernatural nonsense he could imagine it would be – had seemed like the only important thing to do at the time. It still was. Durbe glanced back; nothing seemed to be following them along the almost-dried creek bank. The elevation change was dramatic. They were headed almost straight up the side of a sandstone butte now. But that meant they were almost there, if his legs could carry him there.

Gilag ended up half-carrying him along as they followed the winding path that carried them into a canyon, past carvings scraped in the stone and long, thin cacti jutting out from the canyon walls. The air was cooler here, where the towering cliffs blocked most of the sunlight, and they had to stop several times to allow saucer-sized scorpions to scuttle across the path. When they finally made it to the top of the cliff, Durbe leaned heavily on a boulder and looked down into the pool below.

Based on the dry creek beds, he had expected it to be a diminishing water source. Without laborers to maintain it, only a fraction of the water that had once filled this canyon pool remained.

It was never a thriving community, but it scraped by, and now it was dead.

“I see it,” Durbe murmured, clumsily climbing between some boulders until he reached a scraggly bush growing wedged in the rocks. It was about the size of a small sage bush, but its prickly thorns and thin, leafless branches reminded him more of a miniature acacia tree. He’d always thought that was what it was, until it was too late to know any better.

He pulled out his knife and gingerly touched one of the branches, careful to avoid the thorns as he cut it. He’d found one of these branches in the pool as the villagers suffered from untenably high internal temperatures, as their skin stopped producing moisture and their blood boiled. It had gotten into the water. It had gotten into the food.

His hand shook, and he nicked himself on a thorn right as the branch he was cutting snapped off.

As he watched, the blood dripped from his finger onto the branch. The moment it landed, the branch made an angry hissing noise as it began to dissolve in his hand.

“Impossible,” he whispered dropping the plant on the rocks.

“Durbe, the sun is going to set in about an hour, so we should-”

Durbe grabbed Gilag’s hand and pierced the palm with the second knife on his belt. Gilag made a noise of indignation but when Durbe held the dripping blood over the bush, it simply splattered like water.

He didn’t understand.

The sun dipped behind the canyon and Durbe looked up again. He had what he’d come for.

“Yes, let’s go,” Durbe said softly. He waved a hand, opening a portal back to Arclight. Gilag followed suit, and they stepped forward-

-into the village square.

Durbe turned his head slowly toward the village. The ghostly figure stood unblinking by the same door; Durbe began backing up toward the village entrance, eyes locked in horror on those silver eyes.

“Did you do this?” he said, voice cracking.

The figure’s face didn’t change.

Gilag grabbed his arm, whispering his name urgently. He tore his eyes from the figure by the door and looked up at Gilag, whose wide eyes were focused on something right behind Durbe. With a jolt of horror, Durbe turned to look.

A dozen figures blocked the village entrance, and what was worse, Gilag could clearly see them now. The figure Durbe had been focused on stood now at their head and reached out an accusing finger.

_You abandoned us._

“I never abandoned you!” Durbe’s hand clenched Gilag’s arm. “I’m trying to make it right!”

A grotesque smile broke their faces and the lead one – a ghost, spirit, whatever it was – shook its head.

_You wear those robes and that haughty face. We suffer in silence._

“Durbe, what are they talking about?” Gilag’s normally gruff voice had taken on an edge of terror. It made Durbe’s fears worse.

_You’ve forgotten us._

“I haven’t forgotten you. I haven’t.” He was pleading now. It was shameful, for a lord to plead. “Everything I’ve done… I’ve done for the betterment of the Barian-”

_For the betterment of the Barian Kingdom? Don’t lie, Durbe. Not to us and not to yourself. You want power, just like all the others._

The figures stepped closer all at once. One step, two, three…

Durbe stumbled back. “Someone I… who means so much to me is dying. Please, let me make this right. I couldn’t save you, but let me save him.”

_Let you leave? The dead demand justice, Durbe._

“Durbe-”

“What do you want me to do?” Durbe held his hands out. “What justice do you demand?”

_We were murdered._

“What does that have to do with me? I watched you die! I still feel that pain!” The tears were returning with each word Durbe spoke. He didn’t know how to make them understand. He knew they wouldn’t, couldn’t, or if they did, they didn’t care.

Dread seized his body.

_You’re a Barian Lord._

“Yes, but-”

Now he understood.

“No,” he whispered.

_We were murdered by your friends. Your blood will be… our justice._


	29. The Village of Lost Souls

“Hurry up!”

A teenage boy stood at the top of the hill, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet as his older companion dragged a cloth bag full of tools up the slope. “You could help, Kaid. These are heavy and I won’t have any strength left to clear the canal at this rate.”

The boy laughed, brushing his silver hair from his eyes. He ambled down to meet the older boy, pulling a pickaxe from the bag. “You’re just weak, Durbe. Maybe you should join the military. They’d toughen you up, for the sake of the Barian Kingdom.” He adopted an overexaggerated salute.

This response earned him a playful shove. “For the sake of the Seven Barian Lords and their godlike egos, more like.”

The pair bickered the whole way up the slope until they found their destination. From time to time, branches or rocks or ferns worked their way into the canal leading from the village’s water source down to the village, so children were recruited to clear it. Durbe and Kaid scrambled over boulders and cautiously tested the rocky overhangs for snakes before standing by the canal banks, using the tools to clear a path for the water to flow properly again. Durbe bent down to pick up a thin, thorny branch that was caught on the side of the canal.

“Ah!”

He dropped it and swore under his breath, blood dribbling from the place where the thorn had pricked him.

“What would Mother Castia think if she heard you use language like that?” Kaid teased, coming closer.

Durbe stuck his finger in his mouth and scowled. “She’d have to take it up with Mother Ella.”

Kaid laughed. “Mother Ella can swear in three languages.”

“Who do you think I learned it from?”

They finished clearing the canal and gathered their tools. The branch sat forgotten by the side of the canal.

—-

The cool water evaporated almost immediately upon touching Kaid’s burning face. Scarcely any moisture remained; despite the fact that a third of the village had already died of whatever this was, Kaid was hanging on desperately.

Durbe had already watched his mothers die, had held their burning hands as they slipped into unconsciousness, had given them a shoddy burial behind the house, and now he cried precious droplets of water as he knelt by his brother’s side and watched a third person he loved suffer. He alone seemed unaffected by this disease, this plague, this… thing, and he felt guilty for it, when dozens died every day. He would hear for the rest of his life – and he prayed selfishly that his life would be short so he wouldn’t have to endure this anymore – the moans of pain and the anguished screams of those who had to watch their families die.

“Have they… figured out what it is?” Kaid whispered through cracked human lips.

“No.” Durbe shook his head and tightened his grip. “Master Picaeus requested a Healer before he…” He bit his lip. They couldn’t  _afford_  a Healer. Anyone with the Curse was sent to Baria to cater to the elites, and requesting one to visit the village, especially one as remote as this, reached an outrageous price.

“We’re not important.” Kaid inhaled weakly. “Our powers are weak, and we don’t contribute to the kingdom. Why would they waste a Healer on us?”

Durbe clasped his brother’s hand tighter and pulled it to his face. His tears dissipated as soon as they hit Kaid’s skin. “I have enough strength to… to go to Baria and petition the Lords.” He was desperate. All other avenues had been exhausted; the apothecary was dead, the village council was dead, the two Healers that the village had produced in the past ten years were taken to Baria for their powers… “If… if I promise to serve them, then maybe-”

Kaid laughed weakly, and it sounded like rustling paper. “Serve them how? You can barely read.”

“What if this is a plague?” Durbe whispered. “I’m unaffected by it, it seems, so what if they… what if they study me and find a cure and make sure this doesn’t happen again?”

It was a foolish suggestion and Durbe knew it would never work. The Barian Lords would never listen to the pleadings of an impoverished, unread farmer from the outer reaches of the desert; even if they did grant him audience, it might be weeks before anything was done, and Kaid didn’t have weeks. But Kaid didn’t respond, and instead drifted off to sleep again.

“I’m sorry, Kaid.” Durbe kissed his brother’s scalding forehead and stood shakily. “I will be back soon, I promise.”

_You never came back._

A hand tightened on Durbe’s shoulder and it took him a moment to realize that it belonged to Gilag.

“I did,” Durbe said, voice quaking. He took a step back. No matter how frightening the ghosts or spirits or  _visions_  of his brother and former neighbors and acquaintances and friends were, they weren’t alive. None of them even moved now; they stood in front of the path, blocking the only exit out of the village, walled in to keep deadly creatures out. They couldn’t hurt him or Gilag. “I came back, but you were dead…”

But hadn’t he heard stories? That people who found themselves trapped in the Waste after sunset never returned? No, it was a silly rumor, he told himself firmly. If it had any basis in truth, it was probably that they had been frightened to death.

 _You returned only after you joined them._  His brother’s face was unreadable. _You joined the ones who murdered us. Instead of trying to find out what happened, you turned your back on us._ He straightened and adopted a familiar salute.  _For the sake of the Barian Kingdom, isn’t that right?_

Durbe closed his eyes. “I didn’t know who was responsible, I swear, I still-”

_You suspected it was genocide, you suspected the Lords had something to do with it._

It was impossible for Kaid to know what Durbe had spent years trying to uncover in secret. “I-”

_And yet…_

Durbe felt a hand on his arm, a hand that seared his flesh like a hot coal. He stifled a scream as he turned to see one of the village council members standing right behind Gilag.

_The Lords used this village as an experiment._

“Gilag, we have to get out of this village,” Durbe whispered hoarsely, stumbling away from the villagers closest to them.

His general cast a frightened gaze out at the villagers blocking the gate. “How?”

_You knew that._

“Sunrise.” Durbe looked up at Gilag. “We can’t harm the dead. But we can escape at sunrise.”

Gilag shook his head disbelievingly, dragging Durbe away by the arm. “That’s ten hours away. We can’t stand here and hope they won’t come closer for ten hours.”

_That didn’t stop you from committing genocide of your own._

Durbe closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Everything I did, I did for…”

_The sake of the people who killed us._

He couldn’t respond. What could he even say?

—-

They were arguing  _again_. It was all Shingetsu could do to keep from rolling his eyes; when they weren’t pointedly ignoring each other, they were having short, heated conversations. He couldn’t tell what this one was about, but he figured it had something to do with him, judging by the way the captain kept glancing back and scowling.

Shingetsu kept blurting out quiet apologies for almost getting them killed – again – but inwardly he sighed. Outright killing them was an impossible task, given the fact that they were travelling through a land where the Baria Crystal didn’t exist, which would make Prince Astral’s powers stronger. He would be able to handle the humans and their weak human weapons with no real difficulty, but the prince, with all the powers of the Astral World potentially at his fingertips, was a different story.

But then there were the three newcomers – the assassins from Heartland and a permanently cranky woman who kept referring to the captain as a “petty thief” and a colorful assortment of names (and, to Shingetsu’s delight, punched the captain square on the nose upon seeing him) – who altered his view of these humans. When the woman said they were headed for the Waste, instead of trying to talk her out of it, the captain reluctantly agreed, and talk of searching for a Barian-killing plant ensued.

Shingetsu, of course, knew  _all_  about the plant. But this woman, this merchant, claimed to know a way to craft it into a weapon – a weapon much like the one Captain Kamishiro now carried.

He didn’t like when the humans knew about things he didn’t.

When Yuma fell back, hands clenched on his cloak, Shingetsu fell into step next to him. “You look upset.”

Yuma gazed at the captain, who was checking for snakes as they walked with his lance. “He wants to leave you tied up on the side of the road and let nature take its course.”

What did Yuma even see in the captain, anyway? He was constantly sullen, bloodthirsty, vengeful, and had a short temper. There was not a positive trait to be found in him. “I really didn’t mean for Anna to step in the giant antlion nest.” It had been doubly infuriating when the woman had slapped him across the face and yelled for fifteen minutes about it. How much better his life would be if she had fallen into it and been eaten by foot-long antlions.

“Well, about that, you should probably stop offering suggestions for shortcuts,” Yuma said, rubbing his eyes. “And your singing is only attracting predators.”

“I only wanted to keep the spirits up, since everyone seems so-”

Yuma grabbed him by the shoulder. “Shingetsu, please, we know you only mean well, but for your own safety and ours, be quiet.”

Shingetsu forced tears into his eyes. “I understand. I really am sorry, Yuma.”

Yuma gave him a small smile and pulled his hand away. “We should be there by midmorning tomorrow, Anna says. We’re going to set up camp in a few miles, anyway.”

 _It had better be no later than midmorning, because I am not getting trapped there after sunset._ But Shingetsu simply nodded, because  _Shingetsu_  didn’t know that they weren’t headed for a  _haunted_  village after all.

—-

Durbe wouldn’t move, and Gilag didn’t know what the silvery boy was saying to him to elicit these pleading responses; whatever he was saying was for Durbe alone. All Gilag did know was that Durbe was unsteady on his feet and there were villagers all over the square, standing perfectly still, with their hollow gazes on the two living creatures standing on the stone walkway.

“Is there anywhere in this village we can go to be safe?” Gilag murmured in Durbe’s ear, but the lord shook his head slowly, eyes boring into the ground.

“Not… I don’t…”

It was the most inopportune time for the lord’s usually iron resolve to bend. “We’re dead if you don’t get your head out of your ass and use your brain to get us out of this,” Gilag hissed, and he picked Durbe up by the waist, tucked him under his arm, and turned to run.

 _You won’t get very far_.

Gilag didn’t listen. If the worst they could do was burn them with their touch, so be it. It could never be as painful as the days he’d spent in an infirmary bed with a seared back while Alit insisted on reading four hundred year old romances to him. “ _Durbe_!”

The silvery boy appeared in Gilag’s path, vanishing and reappearing seamlessly.  _You serve him, and yet, do you know his true aims?_

“I don’t care!” Gilag pulled his hammer from his belt and waved it at the boy, who simply stepped back to avoid it. “I’ve sworn to serve him, no matter where he leads me.” He thrust his hammer forward again, and the boy jumped gracefully to the side.

But if he was a ghost, or a spirit, or whatever, why would he evade the weapon? Wouldn’t it go right through him?

“Are you even dead?”

Durbe made a shuddering noise. “Gilag, I watched them die.”

“Then how did they touch you?” Gilag held his hammer in front of him, waving it at the few villagers who got close. They stayed back, but his arm was getting tired, and he needed both hands to wield the hammer comfortably, so he dropped Durbe, who wasn’t expecting it and collapsed to his knees. “You’re the lord, Durbe! Pull yourself together and prove it!”

The boy reached for Durbe, silvery hand holding a knife that sliced easily through Durbe’s shoulder, spattering blood onto the cobblestones at his feet. Gilag swung at him, and he darted back out of the hammer’s reach again.

“Oh God,” Durbe whimpered, putting his hand to his shoulder. “How… how is this…”

He sat there, staring transfixed at his blood, without a care in the world that the boy was drawing his arm back, probably to get Durbe through the chest this time-

Gilag swore loudly and grabbed Durbe by the neck of his robes, yanking him to his feet. “Goddamn it, Durbe! Do  _something_! You didn’t become one of the Seven Barian Emperors because of your cute face!”

He didn’t know what drove him to say something like that, given how sensitive people like Durbe and Mizael were about their young, pretty human forms (as far as Gilag was concerned, they were conventionally attractive humans), but it seemed to spark something in Durbe – annoyance, disbelief, Gilag didn’t care as long as Durbe was something other than a frightened child – and he pulled his knife from his belt and slashed at the boy.

“I’m not  _cute_ ,” Durbe breathed, pulling his robes from his neck, “and my powers aren’t working inside the village boundaries. I have an idea, though. Will you cover me?”

 _That’s more like it._ “As long as you don’t ignore me again.”

“Fair enough.” Durbe held his knife tenderly in front of him, taking cautious steps to the south. “We need to reach the chapel.”

 _Maybe not._  “What the hell kind of good is that going to do?” But he followed Durbe at a trot, keeping his hammer at the ready.

“If I’m right, I guess I can tell you when we get there,” Durbe called back, and Gilag scowled.

—-

Akari sat in her bed, too large for one person, propped up by pillows as she watched Chris lean on the windowsill, gazing out at the dark gardens below. They had barely spoken since their wedding, if it could be called that; the king and Durbe both insisted that a legitimate wedding ceremony be performed to validate their union for the people. But as far as the law was concerned, they  _were_ wed, and by law were permitted to consummate their marriage.

She didn’t want to and it seemed that Chris didn’t either, but she knew custom dictated that they have an heir, and they would have to talk about it eventually.

“Are you ever going to tell me who he was?” she said softly. His hands tightened on the sill. “The man in the hall, I mean?”

“It isn’t important.”

“I think it is.”

He turned his head, face dark. She didn’t think the flickering candlelight was solely responsible for it, either. “Why do you care?”

“He tried to kill you.”

Chris stared at her for a long time before pulling himself from the window and sitting stiffly on the bedside. “He was a friend.” He stared down at his hands, hair falling over his face.

“Was?”

He turned his back to her. “Despite everything, his fate clashes with mine, it seems.”

She leaned forward and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him around until he looked her in the eyes. “What  _is_ your fate, Christopher?”

His shoulders tensed under her hand. “I gave myself to the Barians.”

She felt a chill in the room despite the warm candlelight. “My father always said that you control your own fate.” This philosophy had gotten him killed, far away from home where his body was never recovered, but she didn’t feel Chris would be comforted by that thought.

There was a strange, sad softness in his eyes as he turned to her and pulled her hand from his shoulder. “My own fate, yes. But not the fate of others.” He stood. “Sleep well, Akari.”

By all rights, they should have shared a bed, as husband and wife, but he slept down the hall in his old room. Then again, he didn’t love her and she didn’t love him, so maybe it was better this way.

—-

The door slammed behind Gilag, the sound echoing through the empty stone chamber that once passed as a chapel. Durbe backed away from the door, knife at the ready, wondering whether he was right or if he’d just condemned Gilag and himself to a horrifying death.

Nothing happened.

He sighed and fell heavily to a crumbly stone pew. “Demons, then. They’re demons.” He covered his face with his hands and took steadying breaths. What a horrible fate to befall his brother. What a horrible fate to befall his village, that they had died with so much pain and hatred that they would never find peace, and never leave these walls.

Gilag sat across the aisle, leaning his hammer against a nearby pew. “I don’t understand a goddamn thing that has happened in the past hour, Durbe.”

Durbe lowered his hands. Gilag was a lot of things at that moment – angry, confused, frightened, annoyed – and he had every right to be. They weren’t leaving the village until sunrise, so it wasn’t as though there wasn’t ample time to explain. “I grew up here, Gilag. That boy… Kaid… was my little brother, reborn as a… as a demon. These walls” –he gestured at the roof- “were built to ward demons. They can’t harm us as long as we don’t let them in.”

Another emotion joined Gilag’s expression – pity – but Durbe didn’t want to see it. “What happened here? That plant… killed everyone except you?”

“Yes.”

“Why not you?”

It wasn’t meant to sound accusatory, but Durbe flinched anyway. He hadn’t exactly  _wanted_ to be the only one. “I don’t know. I don’t think I ever will. Maybe God had a plan for me.” He laughed bitterly. More likely, God wanted to see Durbe suffer. “It doesn’t matter. I left my brother as he died and used my pitiful powers to petition the Lords for a Healer. They rejected my petition.” His hands felt suddenly cold, and he rubbed them together. “A magistrate even accused me of poisoning them, since I was the only one unaffected. To stay out of prison, I joined the very military I despised, offering my life to serve the Barian Kingdom in exchange for my freedom.” He closed his eyes. “Trading one set of shackles for another, I suppose.”

Gilag wouldn’t look at him, and Durbe could hardly blame him. He’d abandoned his own brother, leaving him to die alone and frightened and in unimaginable pain. “You didn’t kill them, though. Why do these… villagers want your blood?”

Durbe stood and walked down the aisle, his footsteps echoing loudly. He stopped by the altar. When he’d last looked upon it, he’d offered a blood sacrifice for the health of his dying village. Apparently his blood meant little to their God. “Barian Lords are, in theory, one. One in purpose, and that is to serve the Barian Kingdom. What one lord does… is done by all.”

“But you weren’t a lord.”

“I am now.”

“I don’t get it.”

He leaned on the altar. “I came across some things when I was researching the others. All six of the other current lords rose to power through… death. They were responsible for deaths, sometimes hundreds of them, and what happened here was part of it, I’m sure of it.” He recalled the smell of the smoke, of the burning trees and burning bodies, the screams of pain, the rivers of blood flowing through the golden autumn foliage. He saw Mizael’s face, so easy to read, full of regret. Did Mizael hate him back then? Did he wish he had never met Durbe in that library, did he wish he had never sworn that oath? “I was no different.” Through the window, he could see the villagers gathered around the church, eyes focused on him. He didn’t bother looking away. “To them, I suppose, one genocide is no different from another.”

Every minute they were here was another minute Mizael was closer to death. This knowledge clawed at Durbe’s heart, but there was nothing he could do.

Gilag insisted that Durbe have the first sleep. After three hours of pretending to sleep, he allowed Gilag to take a rest, promising to wake him in a few hours. Gilag snored a bit too loud, and drooled on the stone bench, but it was reassuring. He stared out the window at his mothers and his brother and they stared right back at him for the next six hours until the weak morning sun climbed above the eastern mountains.

In an instant, the village of lost demons, tied to this purgatory for eternity, vanished until the next night, when they would wake crying for justice.

There were many things he did not understand, and many things he never wanted to find the answers to.

Durbe shook Gilag awake, and after Gilag berated him for not waking him earlier, they left the church, left the village, and as Durbe opened a weak portal outside the village boundaries, he swore he saw his brother watching him.

—-

Durbe half-ran through the halls of Arclight, ignoring the bewildered salutations from the palace servants. They had spent far too long in the village, and Mizael’s health had been poor when they’d left to begin with. If he was dead…

_No, he’s not. Not my faithful Mizael._

Alit pulled back from squeezing water on Mizael’s face as Durbe barreled through the door, Gilag following close behind. “Get a Healer in here, immediately,” Durbe breathed, touching Mizael’s face. Even the water Alit had just now poured onto him had evaporated. A normal human would be long dead. “And some more drinking water. Quickly.”

He didn’t bother looking up to see his generals’ reactions, but they left with no questions, for which Durbe was grateful. They would certainly have questioned him for what he was about to do. And he didn’t even know if it would work.

With a deep breath, he sat on the bed next to Mizael and pulled out his knife. His hand shook as he pulled back the sleeve on his right arm and cut a large gash into his flesh before he could give himself time to hesitate.

The warm blood dripped onto Mizael’s sheets as Durbe lifted the stinging cut to his own mouth and sucked it into his mouth, some smearing onto his lips. This would probably hurt Mizael. Durbe didn’t want to do it, but if it worked, his blood would save his general.

He placed the knife tip against Mizael’s bare arm, leaned down, and pressed his bloodied lips to Mizael’s while he cut a matching gash into Mizael’s flesh.

Mizael’s lips parted, a gasp of pain slipping into Durbe’s mouth, as Durbe tossed the knife aside and pressed their gashes together. Desperately, he pushed his tongue between Mizael’s lips and transferred the blood in his mouth to Mizael. It was desperate, foolish, and if Mizael survived Durbe’s attempts to transfer his blood into Mizael’s body, Durbe would gladly accept a slap across the face for this.

He pulled his face away, breathing heavily, but kept their arms pressed together, praying that he had managed to cut into one of Mizael’s veins. His head was light from the blood loss…

… _surely it won’t hurt_ …

“If my blood gives you strength,” he murmured, closing his eyes, “I will give it to you.”

He rested his head next to Mizael’s shoulder, arm still reaching across Mizael’s body, and let his exhaustion take him.


	30. The Legend of the Dragon

His body and mind were so spent that he hardly felt Alit pull him from the bed, hardly heard the hisses in his ear –  _you moron_ , it sounded like, but Durbe was past caring – and barely saw the Healer pouring water into Mizael’s half-open and blood-stained mouth. The emotional drainage he had experienced the night before, the lack of sleep he had received, and his overwhelming fear of losing the Barian he trusted most made him feel hazy and unfocused (or maybe it was his blood loss, he registered as the Healer grabbed his arm and muttered curses at him). He was only vaguely aware that he sent Alit and Gilag back into the hall to guard the infirmary.

“Is he going to live?” he interrupted the Healer in the middle of a muttered tirade about someone being  _irresponsible_ and  _you’re not a Healer so don’t do this kind of thing._

“His fever has gone down,” the Healer replied tersely, pressing his hand to the burn on Durbe’s arm. “My lord,” he added as though only then remembering that Durbe was within his rights to toss him in a cell for showing him disrespect. Not that Durbe would, of course. Good Healers were hard to come by.

Durbe closed his eyes and shuddered at the Healer’s icy touch. Human Healers still made him uncomfortable. “You didn’t answer my question. Is he going to live?”

The Healer pulled his hands away and looked at Mizael’s sleeping body. There was blood all over the sheets, both Mizael’s and Durbe’s, and when Alit and Gilag had shown up, Durbe now realized that it would have been an awkward situation to find a lord holding his general’s body like that. He wondered what the Healer thought and considered telling him to remain silent about it. “It’s impossible to tell, my lord. His condition has vastly improved since early this morning, but he still has a fever.”

So Durbe’s desperate gamble to save Mizael’s life paid off after all. Durbe still didn’t understand why his blood killed the poison, and it would be interesting to study someday, but time was running out. It would have to wait, and he would have to be grateful that whatever it was in his blood had saved Mizael. He was about to dismiss the Healer again when the Healer caught sight of something behind Durbe and sank into a clumsy bow. Durbe turned to see a tiny, doll-like woman – a porcelain face framed by thick golden ringlets, large blue eyes, and a heart-shaped birthmark under her right eye – in a high-necked, frilly pink dress standing by the door. He had rarely seen Ilya in her human form, but she looked so  _fragile,_ something he knew was definitely not the case.

“My lady,” the Healer mumbled.

She waved the closed parasol she was holding. “None of this  _my lady_ business. I’m a lord, just the same as the others. Calling me a lady makes me sound inferior, unless you’re going to take to calling the others  _my gentleman_.”

“I…” The Healer glanced at Durbe, who gestured for the Healer to stand upright. “Yes, my… my lord.”

“Good.” Ilya’s dress swished around her ankles as she approached the bed where Mizael slept. “How is General Mizael faring today?”

“He has improved,” Durbe said cautiously.

She touched his face, brushing his limp bangs from his eyes. “You found a cure so quickly, Lord Durbe?”

He glanced down at her face, lips pursed thoughtfully as she gazed at Mizael. How much involvement did  _she_ have with what happened in his village? Did she have any involvement at all?  _Does she know that I even ever lived there?_ He tugged his sleeve over the thin scar on his arm. “I bled him.”

“You  _what_?” She turned and frowned at him. “What a barbaric technique. I doubt General Mizael will take too well to you resorting to outdated human healing practices to save him.”

“He wouldn’t respond to anything else,” Durbe muttered, looking away. “I was desperate.”

Ilya shifted her parasol to the other hand. “Well, I propose we take this outside. It’s a beautiful morning, and I have some things I would like to talk to you about.” Her gaze flickered to the Healer. “Privately.”

A private conversation with another lord was never a good sign; they usually ended up with vague alliances and promises that would be broken as soon as the opportunity presented itself. And Durbe wanted to stay by Mizael’s side, to provide him with more of his blood should Mizael’s condition suddenly revert. But he inclined his head. “Very well.” He turned to the Healer. “Please stay with the general and inform me immediately should he get worse, or if he wakes up.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Ilya held out an arm and gave Durbe a warm smile. It seemed genuine. “Well, shall we?”

He took it.

—-

Icy water surrounded him, suffocated him,  _drowned_ him. It was so different, so  _real_  this time; he had always been detached from the feeling of being underwater, but now he truly felt it. When he tried to open his mouth, to make his demands the same as always, water filled his lungs, and he could not speak.

The monster watched him impassively. He wanted to scream at it –  _why are you here, why won’t you tell me the reason I see you, why won’t you speak to me_  – but all that escaped his burning lungs was a stream of choked bubbles.

Not a sound left the monster, but Ryoga felt its response in his heart.

_Accept me._

_No_ , he wanted to scream, and maybe he tried to scream it, but his voice was garbled,  _I don’t understand what you want!_

_Accept me, and accept your fate._

“No!”

“Ryoga!”

When his eyes snapped open, his hands were clutching the front of Yuma’s shirt, and Yuma was holding him by the shoulders, cradling him, really, but Ryoga found comfort in it. He let Yuma help him to a sitting position as Yuma brushed his thumb against the moisture on Ryoga’s face. Had he cried? Was it sweat? Or was it a remnant of his recurring nightmares? Gods, his heart was pounding.

“Why can’t I have one night?” he whispered, and Yuma’s hand cupped his face gently before Ryoga reached up and pulled it away. He couldn’t let Yuma do that. He thought he’d made that clear.

“If it would help to talk about it, I am here for you,” Yuma murmured, but Ryoga looked past him and saw a man sitting stiffly on a rock nearby, a man he didn’t expect to see again, especially not this soon.

“How did you find us?” he demanded, looking around for his lance.

“Relax.” Kaito stared into the dying fire, face dark. He was still wearing his tattered white clothing, covered now in blood and dirt and grime. His gloves were stained red, with deep gashes cutting into his hands. Whatever had happened with Kaito and the Arclight brother, Kaito looked much worse for the wear. “It’s not as though you were being particularly quiet all day. It was easy to follow you.” He nodded at Shingetsu.

Ryoga could have choked Shingetsu had the bard not been on the opposite side of the fire. But unlike everyone else, who seemed to be sleeping – or at least pretending to sleep – Shingetsu watched the proceedings with an expression of curiosity.

“When did you get here?” Ryoga pulled himself free of Yuma.

“Ten minutes ago,” Yuma said, settling himself a few feet away.

“And you didn’t wake me?”

“He tried.” Kaito reached into a pocket, pulling out a small, leatherbound book. “You were thrashing around in your sleep again.”

Ryoga pressed his lips together. The sky was still dark, but there was a hint of color rising over the buttes to the east; it was about time to wake everyone and prepare to move on for the day. There had to be a reason Kaito had for following them out here instead of returning to take care of things in his home kingdom. Deep shadows accented Kaito’s eyes, as though he hadn’t slept in a couple of days. He might not have. “Why are you here?”

Kaito closed his eyes, hands tightening on the book. “I need… your help.”

It was such an absurd thing to hear out of Kaito’s mouth that Ryoga actually laughed. “Oh? My  _help_? What new trouble have you gotten yourself into this time,  _my lord_?”

“Don’t ridicule me, you disgusting half-breed,” and Kaito’s face was back to its usual, sullen self.

“You know,” a sleepy voice said from the other side of Yuma, and Rio sat up, rubbing her eyes, “if you want help from someone, it’s usually best not to insult them.” Next to Rio, Kotori stirred. The others were starting to wake, save for the assassins, who slept next to each other, about as far from the dying fire as they could be while still being in view.

But while the others sat up and folded their blankets back into their packs and started rummaging around for their rations of smoked jackrabbit, Shingetsu sat on the other side of the fire, gazing impassively at Kaito.

“You owe me,” Kaito retorted, thrusting the book in his hand into Ryoga’s, pulling Ryoga’s attention away from Shingetsu. “I sacrificed  _everything_ to help you, so now you need to return the favor.”

Ryoga flipped the book open and rolled his eyes. “And here I thought you were helping us out of the goodness of-”

He turned the page and froze.

There was no way that Kaito should have this book.

“Where did you find this?” he demanded, climbing to his feet.

“It was a gift,” Kaito said tersely, but that wasn’t a viable answer at all. Ryoga grabbed Kaito by the front of his shirt and pulled him to his feet. Kaito winced, a small grunt escaping his throat.

“ _Ryoga_.”

“It wasn’t a  _gift_ ,” Ryoga breathed, ignoring Rio’s hand on his arm. “You shouldn’t have this. This shouldn’t be in  _any_  book.”

Kaito grabbed Ryoga’s wrist with his blood-soaked hand. “Well, it is. Translate it.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Captain, what’s going on?”

Ryoga released Kaito, who fell back on his heels and grimaced. Maybe he was in pain. Good. “I’m sorry for waking you, Prince Astral.”

“It was time to wake anyway.” Astral’s eyes lingered on the book clenched in Ryoga’s hand. “What’s this?”

It was Kaito who answered in a pained voice. “The Legend of the Dragon.”

—-

The spring air was warm and humid as Durbe accompanied Ilya into the gardens. She didn’t speak for the entire walk down from the infirmary, leaving Durbe feeling rather anxious about why she was there. He rarely received visits from the other lords, and when he did, it was Vector or Polara. Ilya had never been to see him, and they’d had relatively few one-on-one talks in the ten years he had been a lord. Something was up, and he didn’t like it.

She opened her parasol as they walked, swinging it over her shoulder. It gave her the appearance of a life-sized doll, with neatly painted facial features and intricately designed ruffles. He knew better. In many ways, Ilya was one of the most dangerous lords.

“I’m pleased to see General Mizael seems to be recovering,” she said finally, trailing her fingers along a hedge.

Durbe lifted an eyebrow. “I never got the impression that you cared at all for him.”

Her laugh was lilting, high pitched, and childish. “I don’t. You’re probably the only one who does. But think of it this way, Durbe:  Someone stumbles on a plant that kills Barians and there’s no known cure. Barians die by the dozens from it. Can you just  _imagine_  how catastrophic that would be?”

He understood exactly what she meant, and probably better than she did. After all, he’d watched it happen. “So you’re more relieved that a Barian survived this attempted murder than you are that it happened to be my general.”

“No offense met, Durbe, but he’s not exactly the most pleasant person to have a conversation with,” Ilya said with an obviously fake smile.

Even after all these years, it galled Durbe to have to listen to others mock Mizael. “He may be blunt and rude, but I have trusted my life to him, and he has not disappointed me.”

“Of course.” Ilya paused by a neatly pruned yellow rose bush and ran her fingers over the petals. “Loyal enough to hide your true intentions from the rest of us.”

Durbe clenched his fist. “I tire of defending my actions. I am, and forever will be, loyal to the Barian Empire.”

“Please calm yourself, Lord Durbe,” she said, pulling her hand away and settling on a stone bench sitting under a blooming cherry tree. She gestured for him to join her, which he did grudgingly. “Being defensive only catches our attention. But please do tell me, how did you really save General Mizael’s life?”

He hesitated for a second too long, and her glossy pink lips twitched upward. “Was my answer not satisfactory?”

She laughed again. “Durbe, please.” She took his hand and shook his arm until his sleeve fell upward. The Healer had closed the wound but a thin scar remained; Healing hadn’t cleaned the dried blood there, either. “A blood oath, Durbe?”

He tore his hand free and shook the sleeve back down. “No.” He rubbed his arm furiously. She was getting too close to the truth, and he knew she had probably already arrived at it. Was she playing with him? He’d always thought her to be on his side – for the most part – but was she really? Had she been playing the same game he struggled to master?

“No, of course not.” She leaned close to him, pressing her finger to his mouth. “Blood oaths don’t involve the lips.”

Dread seized every ounce of his body; he wanted to pull away, to excuse himself, but that would only prove whatever she was thinking.

“Mizael had blood on his mouth, too,” she murmured in his ear. “I hope… there’s no correlation. You know that’s against the rules.”

Denying it would get him nowhere. Acknowledging it would destroy him. It hadn’t been a romantic kiss, but a blood transfer. He and Mizael weren’t lovers and never had been. But trying to explain that his blood was immune to the poison was something he wanted desperately to keep a secret. If one of the other lords was responsible for trying to have him killed, he didn’t want them to think of more creative ways. Of course, if the lords even suspected something was going on, he might not even have that safeguard. For the first time, he couldn’t think of an excuse. He might have to give up his advantage in order to save both himself and Mizael, and he hated that thought.

“You’re usually on top of your game,” she said, and she seemed almost disappointed, the way her lips pursed into a pout and her eyes narrowed. “But, tell you what.” She took Durbe’s arm and pulled him to his feet, leaning up to murmur in his ear again. “You’re up to a lot of great things, Durbe. You’ve done more than any of the rest of us combined in the past ten years. So let me in on it, and I’ll keep your secret safe.”

He turned his eyes toward her and she smiled. It seemed he didn’t have much of a choice. “In a few days, I’m going to Heartland,” he said softly. If anything would show him how far she was willing to manipulate him, how she acted during his meeting with Heartland would shed some light on it. “You are welcome to accompany me. I believe it is time for Lord Heartland to admit defeat at last.”

This time, her smile was so wide it showed her teeth. “Ruthlessly efficient as always, Durbe. I look forward to it.” She let go of his arm and walked off down the path, twirling her parasol. “Give General Mizael my best, Lord Durbe,” she said with a curtsy, vanishing into a portal and leaving Durbe feeling even more exhausted and worried than before.

—-

 _It’s a goddamn legend, Kaito_ , Ryoga had hissed at him, and he tried to toss the book in the fire, but his sister and Prince Astral intervened on Kaito’s behalf, reminding Ryoga that, yes, he did  _owe Kaito_ _._

“At least hear him out,” Rio suggested, and Prince Astral agreed.

Ryoga refused flat-out to translate it where everyone could hear, which puzzled Kaito because he thought perhaps Ryoga would be more amenable toward the people he should have considered friends and allies. But he didn’t press the issue, and insisted only that Prince Astral and Yuma be allowed to join them. He had questions for Yuma, and Astral could help with his shoddy translation of the Astralite text.

When the twins were situated away from the camp – and everyone remaining in the camp looked sullen about being excluded from this – and had begun translating, Kaito pulled Yuma aside first.

“Do you know how your father learned about the plant?” he said without preamble.

Yuma frowned and shifted away. “I don’t know what he was doing in the Waste.  _They_ already asked me.”

There was a stiffness to his voice that told Kaito who  _they_ were. “Are you suspicious of me?”

“Ryoga trusts you.”

Kaito followed Yuma’s gaze toward the Dragoons, who were arguing quietly, presumably about a translation they disagreed on. Yuma turned his head back and stared at his hands, clasped together on his lap. Was that a hint of _jealousy_  in Yuma’s voice?

“And you trust me because he does?”

“His trust is hard-earned. I spent a year gaining it.”

It was definitely jealousy, then. “That doesn’t mean he likes me,” Kaito said quietly. “He trusts you, and he likes you. You’re all he talked about for a week. It was quite annoying, really.” It was the truth; ever since encountering Anna after leaving the Arena, Ryoga had brought up Yuma in nearly every conversation they had.

Yuma didn’t seem too cheered by this thought. Maybe something had happened since their escape from Arclight. But he changed the conversation before Kaito could press. “Where did you get that sword?”

The question took Kaito aback. The sword had been his for as long as he could remember, and he had never known where it came from. “It was passed down from my mother’s side for several generations. Why?”

He usually got comments on it involving its craftsmanship, the intricate detailing, and its optimal sharpness. But Yuma stared at it with a much different look, with dark, narrowed eyes and tightly pressed lips. “General Mizael has a sword just like it.”

It took Kaito a moment to realize Yuma’s implication, and his hands instinctively went to the sword’s hilt. “I hope you’re not assuming my ancestors worked with the Barians.”

Yuma gave him a stony glare. “It wouldn’t be the first time a Tenjo betrayed their race, would it?”

Thankfully (for Kaito, for Yuma, he wasn’t sure), Ryoga chose that moment to tear the pages he was translating out of the journal and walked toward the fire again. This time, Kaito couldn’t stop him from tossing the pages in.

“What the hell are you doing?” He forced himself to his feet, breathing in sharply at the pain.

“Calm down,” Rio muttered, rubbing her eyes again. “We translated it for you.”

“We’re not letting anyone see these symbols and attach a translation to them,” Ryoga called out, watching the parchment curl in the fire. “You’d better hope to whatever gods you worship now that this text is nowhere else.”

 _I worship the same gods you do, you self-important asshole,_  Kaito was bursting to say, but he bit his tongue. “Fine. Give it here.”

Rio glanced at her brother, who shrugged jerkily before rejoining the small group. “There are a couple of words we didn’t know,” she said, handing over the journal. “But these translations make the most sense in context.”

“Didn’t you grow up with this legend?” Kaito demanded.

“It’s a goddamn bedtime story, you idiot,” Ryoga said, plopping on the ground next to his sister. “None of us bother remembering it past the age of six.”

“Don’t speak to me that way.”

“Oh, you’re right, I’m sorry,” Ryoga said sarcastically. “It’s a goddamn bedtime story,  _my lord._  Only naïve children and idiots chase after it.”

“May I?” Astral interrupted, holding out his hand. Kaito obliged; he’d needed Astral to look over the second stanza, but he glared at Ryoga anyway.

“It’s somewhat archaic,” Astral murmured. “I’ve never heard this legend in anything but the common tongue.”

“You can read it, though?” Kaito kept the desperation out of his voice. He was so close…

“Yes,” Astral said after a moment, and Kaito let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “I can read it if you wish. Though,” he added, eyebrows knitting together as he flipped the pages, “it seems the three translations you have in here go in some kind of order. Like they’re-”

“Stanzas,” Kaito finished, and Astral nodded. “That’s what I thought too. That they all go together, and the reason no one has ever fulfilled the legend is because they didn’t have the complete thing.”

Ryoga snorted softly and muttered something about it being a  _waste of time_ , but Kaito ignored him and waved Astral on.

“If read in order,” Astral said softly, “Astralite, Barian, Dragoon, the legend goes like this:

 _Enemies clash, morality blurred_  
Godly power, the key  
To unlock the Power of the Dragon.  
The broken soul,  
A weary warrior approaches the Mountain of the Gods  
Seeking penance, offering a soul with his blood  
Laying Waste to poverty and suffering  
The blood-red city burns, the Dragon striking down the Kings  
And as he wields his Sword  
Another King is born.

 _Twins clash but only one can survive,_  
The destructive power of the Astral World, the key  
To unlock the power of the Dragon.  
The soul laden with sin,  
A weary traveler approaches the River of the Gods  
Seeking penance, offering a stained soul  
Laying Waste to corruption and pain  
Fire burns, the wielder’s sword strikes down the Gods  
And as he wields his Sword  
Another God is born.

 _Gods clash, the world burns_  
The power of Origin, the key  
To unlock the power of the Dragon.  
The soulless sinner and the broken warrior meet  
Together they stand in the Garden of the Gods  
Seeking to save those they love  
Tormented by betrayal and hatred  
The Eyes of the Galaxy open  
And as one twin takes the other  
Only the True Power can calm the raging Dragon.”

Silence fell, and Kaito was vaguely aware of the fire-haired boy watching them closely from the other side of the camp, one eyebrow lifted curiously. Something about him discomforted Kaito. Where had they found him?

But it was more pressing to decipher this legend. They all went together – the power of the Astral World, the two destined to clash, the fight, the Dragon’s power waking – but some of it didn’t make sense. The legend spoke of three different places – the mountain, the river, and the garden – and how was Kaito to know which was the destined meeting place?

“That doesn’t sound like the legend I heard as a kid,” Yuma said thoughtfully. “Well, parts of it do, but-”

Ryoga stood and shook his head. “Nothing but gibberish,” he muttered. “We’re running behind and don’t have time for this. Let’s go.”

Kaito stood carefully, allowing Prince Astral to assist him to his feet. Ryoga may not hold any stock in the legend, but it didn’t explain why three different cultures – one of them isolated from the others in every way – had a legend that correlated with the others.


	31. Revenants

Directly overhead, the sun scorched the earth. Snakes bathed in it, curled up on rocks, and insects clicked and buzzed in the meager shade the rocks provided for them. Midday was later than they had anticipated arriving here, and Shingetsu scratched furiously at his dry forearm. It was hot and dry and he was  _furious_ ; Kaito Tenjo had held them up for three hours too long. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t enjoyed learning certain things about Kaito’s condition, his double betrayal, his interest in a legend – curious, though; hadn’t Miza been interested in that legend too? – and his association with these humans, but he would have preferred doing so when there wasn’t the possibility that he’d be held up in  _this place_. He didn’t want to be here. The air felt  _strange_. And he knew why.

It wasn’t safe for him here, but he couldn’t let them know that. He’d have to be careful.

They stopped in the middle of the town square, on a cobblestone walkway, and Ryoga glanced around warily, hand tight on his weapon. Yuma paused next to him and murmured something Shingetsu couldn’t hear, but Ryoga merely shook his head and turned away. Shingetsu caught Yuma roll his eyes and wave his hands dismissively.

 _More trouble in paradise?_  It was almost funny how Ryoga treated Yuma. As though he were deliberately being rude, trying to make Yuma not like him. Well, he was doing a good job. Shingetsu was always open for opportunities to figure these people out. He could use this tension to his advantage, he was sure.

Anna paused by the walkway and scuffed her foot on the ground. “There’s something here.”

As Kaito joined her and brushed the ground with his foot, a jolt ran through his body, and Shingetsu let out a noise of surprise and clutched at his chest, where the small gem nestled under the folds of his clothing burned.

_Justice._

—-

It had been so many years since Chris had been of age to be married that Thomas had begun to doubt that he would ever have a sister-in-law. But never had he imagined she would end up being a common woman from another kingdom, the sister of an enemy, or chosen in a moment of desperation to cover up Chris’s extramarital affair with the prince of a neighboring kingdom.

They clasped hands over the altar as Rokujuro read them their genealogy (Akari nearly started crying when her brother’s name was mentioned) and their vows – for real, this time – and performed the wine-drinking ceremony properly. It was not as grand as it should have been, the first royal wedding in decades; the only ones there were Chris’s brothers and father, Akari’s grandmother, the palace’s personal maids and servants, and Durbe and his three generals. Thomas watched Mizael closely; he was still sweaty and pale and occasionally placed his hand to his mouth as though about to throw up until Durbe pulled Mizael’s hair off his neck and offered a small vial of some kind of tonic. Mizael made a face of disgust until Durbe murmured to him and Mizael choked it down, lips stained with red from the liquid. Durbe was pale too, Thomas noted. Overwork, probably.

“And now, if the newly joined heirs would seal their union,” Rokujuro said, snapping Thomas back to attention.

Chris started to pull her toward him, a slack look in his face that dripped with reluctance, but Akari pulled back, mouth twisted in a grimace.

“I don’t want a kiss,” she said shrilly, and Thomas closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. What a troublesome woman.

“Lady Akari,” Rokujuro muttered, rubbing his eyes, “please do not make this difficult.”

 “Difficult?” She snorted loudly. “I was kidnapped and thrown in a cell for weeks and forced to watch my brother be tortured until  _suddenly_ I get forced to marry this… this man I don’t even  _know_  and you expect me to be calm. I don’t love him and I refuse to kiss someone I don’t love.”

Throughout her tirade, Chris remained surprisingly stoic; he nodded faintly at the ground with each of her points, but when she finished, he pulled her back and kissed her cheek. She reached up to shove him away again, and he whispered something to her. Whatever it was he said changed her comportment completely, from angry to worried. Finally, slowly, she leaned up, squeezed her eyes shut, and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips. This entire farce of a wedding ceremony only served to prove to Thomas that neither of them was going to be making any movement toward producing an heir for this kingdom anytime soon.

The wedding banquet was reserved for the royal family and special guests, and as a Lord, Durbe was certainly entitled to be there. To Thomas’s surprise, he held General Mizael by the forearm and attempted to lead him out before Byron intercepted him and dragged him away from Mizael to talk, Durbe casting an apologetic look at the pallid general as Byron pulled him to the refreshments table. That was fine with Thomas. He needed to speak to Durbe, but Mizael would do.

Mizael swayed slightly on his feet, standing exactly where Durbe had left him, and wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. It wasn’t hot in the room, and the windows were open to let in a cool breeze. He looked worse than Thomas thought possible.

“Good morning, General,” he said in the politest voice he could muster, waving away Alit and Gilag, who were approaching. He wanted to talk to Mizael without their interference.

He received a noncommittal grunt from the general in response and Thomas felt annoyance flare up in him.  _You’re a general and I am a prince,_  he thought scathingly.  _Treat me with respect, you disgusting monster._

But Mizael did have the right to be angry, and he was sick, so Thomas let it pass without incident. “I am pleased to see that you’re in good health now.”

“I’d hardly call this good health,” Mizael mumbled, and his gaze was fixed on Durbe, who was listening to Byron rambling about something. “I can barely stand unassisted and I’m not allowed back in my body until this poison is completely gone.”

 _Poison? What kind of poison could leave a_ Barian _in such a state?_ “I’d heard it was simply an illness, General. You were  _poisoned_?” Thomas couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

Mizael’s jaw clenched and he ignored Thomas. It was probably a slip.  _What else can I make him slip to me?_

“Was that an antidote Lord Durbe was giving you? It looked like pulpy wine.”

“It’s none of your business.” Mizael closed his eyes and wiped the sweat from his face again. His hand shook and Thomas watched him bite through his lower lip, drawing blood.

“Who poisoned you, anyway?”

Mizael clenched his fists. If he were in better health, Thomas was sure Mizael would have him against a wall by the throat by now. “It-is-none-of-your-business,” he hissed, punctuating each word sharply. His eyes closed and he bent over, resting his hands on his knees.

“Ah, I see. You  _aren’t_  in very good health, are you?” Thomas tilted his head. “Was it the same person that you allowed to take Prince Astral from here, or was it someone else who was trying to undermine you? Another lord, maybe?” He crouched until Mizael was looking up at him through a sheet of stiff, sweat-matted hair. The red dye from Durbe’s antidote looked more like blood on Mizael’s lips from close up, though it might have been from when he bit through his lip. “Is Durbe’s antidote actually helping you or making you worse?”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” Mizael grunted before falling to his knees.

Thomas couldn’t press any further, because Durbe excused himself from Byron and hurried to his general’s side. Durbe whispered to him as he helped him to his feet again, and Thomas caught Durbe ask Mizael if he  _needed more,_ to which Mizael placed a quivering hand to his mouth and shook his head.

Durbe rested the back of his hand against Mizael’s face. “You’re burning up again. Let’s get you in a cool bath.”

Mizael protested weakly, but he slumped into Durbe anyway. Durbe winced at the weight but made no sound of complaint. A disgrace of a lord, Thomas noted, carrying a servant that way.

“Please forgive us for skipping out early,” Durbe muttered to Thomas. “General Mizael is not well.”

“Of course,” Thomas said softly. “May the gods bless him with a swift recovery.”

Durbe caught the thinly-veiled insult and narrowed his eyes at Thomas on the way out.

Thomas would need to speak with the Healer to see what kind of healing regimen Mizael was on, unless Durbe had the foresight to force the Healer’s silence on the matter. He probably had.

“Lord Thomas?”

He turned to face Akari, whose gaunt face was streaked in tear stains again. “Ah, we’re family now. Call me Thomas.” It was apparent that she didn’t yet know that Thomas and Mihael were the ones who captured her brother in the first place. She would doubtless hate him for that when she found out.

She pulled the sleeve of her dress back over her shoulder. It looked too big on her now, though it had fit fine a few days ago. Had she eaten at all? “How do I convince your father that I do not want children?”

 _Of all the misfortunes Chris could have._ Thomas rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m sure you and Chris will overcome your fear of a, hm,  _committed_ relationship before too long.”  _As long as Chris doesn’t mention Kaito to her._ That would go over well.

“It’s not just that.” Akari shifted and breathed heavily, shoulders slumping. Her dress slipped over her shoulder again and she made no effort to fix it.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Look.” She reached out and gripped Thomas’s shoulder with a surprisingly strong hand. “I never wanted to get married. I never wanted to have children, or even to share my bed with another. I… I  _can’t_.”

Thomas understood her fear now. But it didn’t matter what she  _wanted_ anymore. She was the future queen, and that required her to produce an heir. “Your personal desires were fine when you lived in Astral with little pressure to marry, Akari. But you don’t… have a choice anymore.” He gently pried her hand from his shoulder. It fell to her side. “Father doesn’t care about what we want. It’s what’s best… for him.”

He excused himself and made his way to the refreshment table, wishing that things didn’t have to be like this, and that their family could be happy again.

—-

Shingetsu’s face was stark, his eyes wide with a kind of unseen terror, and he breathed heavily. Kaito watched as Yuma helped Shingetsu stand properly, Shingetsu nervously laughing, insisting that he just had “a bad feeling about this place.”

Kaito didn’t miss the way Shingetsu clutched at his chest, or the way his lips tightened when Yuma turned away from him. And it had all started when…

He rubbed his foot over the ground again, this time brushing the dirt from a dull red gem buried under decades of dust. Shingetsu’s wince was less pronounced but still there, and Kaito’s suspicions were confirmed. The bard had a connection to this place, somehow, and Kaito intended to figure out what that was.

The more pressing matter was what this gem was.

Anna bent down and picked it up, running her fingers over it, and Shingetsu took a deep breath and turned away, leg bouncing as he scratched at his arm. She frowned at the ground and dragged her foot around, unearthing a few more, but Kaito had a sudden realization and grabbed her arm to stop her.

“Wait,” he muttered. “Something’s… odd.”

Rio held her arms close to her body and shifted from one foot to the other. “You think?”

“It feels bad here,” Cathy agreed, crouching on the ground with her knees pulled up to her chest as her hand rested on the ground. “Bad things happened.”

“Murder,” Shingetsu said in a shaky voice. His arm was bleeding slightly from his nervous scratching. “That’s what they say about this place. We should get whatever we’re here for and get out as soon as possible.”

Kaito was about to ask who Shingetsu meant by  _they_ , but Ryoga interrupted. “Yeah.” He pointed at Anna. “Tell us where this plant is.”

“Excuse me.” Anna drew herself up to her full height, which admittedly wasn’t very high, but the set of her jaw and the way she lifted her chin made her seem bigger than she was. “Don’t you go telling me what to do.”

Ryoga rolled his eyes and held out a hand. “You’re the only one who knows what we’re looking for. Come on.”

She rolled her eyes harder and pointed at a path leading out of the village toward a canyon a couple of miles away. “There’s a path that leads to a water source through there. That’s where it was… last time I was here.”

“Good, let’s go.”

“Perhaps we should consider preparing ourselves for what we might find along that trail,” Kaito interjected, eyeing it. If it was anything like the path on the way to the village, he wasn’t really looking forward to traversing it.

Ryoga placed a hand on his hip and gave Kaito a pretentious smirk that Kaito wanted nothing less than to slap right off his face. “If you’re scared, you can stay and keep an eye on the village.”

“Go to hell.”                                                                                                           

“I don’t think everyone needs to go up there,” Shingetsu suggested. “We… were quite noisy on the way here, and-”

“Fine, Shingetsu can stay behind to keep all the noise here,” Ryoga said. “I’ll go. Anna’s going. Kaito is going to stay because he’s a scared, pampered child.”

Someday, Kaito would have his kingdom back to normal and the Barians would have been wiped off the planet and Kaito would have Ryoga hang by his ankles in a dungeon cell for a few days to make up for all the insults he had to endure from this self-absorbed Dragoon, but until that day, Kaito had to simply grit his teeth and convince himself that Ryoga wasn’t worth the energy anymore.

Besides, the allure of discovering what had happened to this village was overwhelming, and Kaito could hardly object to being away from Ryoga for any length of time.

—-

Yuma followed Astral, Ryoga, and Anna up the rocky canyon path. He hadn’t wanted to go with, nor had Astral, but Kaito insisted they leave. Yuma didn’t understand why, only that Kaito’s gaze was fixated on Shingetsu when he told Astral to go. Rio offered to keep an eye on Kaito for Ryoga, and the others seemed too tired to want to undertake the journey. Astral was definitely not suited for the task; Yuma recalled the trek up the mountain when they escaped from their kingdom and how Astral struggled to breathe with each step. But he was curious to see this plant, so Yuma offered to accompany him. He was doing well, at least for the time, though they still had another mile or so to go, according to Anna. Yuma was proud of Astral’s perseverance.

Ryoga didn’t speak to him for the first three miles. Anna did. She asked him about his father, and what had happened to his father, and how his father was a good person who was responsible for teaching Anna how to make the weapons…

“Anna, if you don’t mind,” Yuma said quietly after a while, “I have a hard time talking about him.”

She fell silent, biting her lip, and nodded. “I’m sorry. I just have…” She glanced at the ground and kicked a few rocks over the side of the path. Yuma hoped it wouldn’t alert some kind of nasty creature that could climb vertical walls. “You seem… a lot different from back then, when I first met you.”

He could barely remember her, and he felt a twinge of guilt. She had fond memories of him and his father and he wasn’t living up to that anymore. “A lot of things have happened since then.” An understatement for the century, but she didn’t press. She just nodded and shrugged.

“You said you didn’t want to be a soldier.”

It was casual, and Yuma knew she meant no harm in saying it. But it hurt. “They never found his body,” he said after a minute. “I wanted to know… what happened.”

“If they never found him, do you think he might still…” Anna’s suggestion was full of hope. Yuma had no such hope anymore.

“I dreamed of him,” Yuma whispered, stopping. Anna took a few more steps before realizing that he wasn’t going to move anymore. “In the Astral World. I know he’s… he’s there now.” His throat felt constricted, like someone was clenching it. Even breathing was hard. He had, for two years, believed that his father had survived and was simply travelling. He had been angry, and hurt, and confused, because his father had abandoned his family – it had literally killed his mother, the knowledge that he might be dead – and left Yuma with a sister who hated everything about the military and a grandmother who had to bury a child. His father had betrayed his family and he didn’t care.

But then, one night, he dreamed of the Astral World, and his father was there.

 _I miscalculated, Yuma_ , he had said in lieu of a proper greeting.  _I was so close._

_What are you talking about?_

_Yuma…_ Kazuma had placed his hands on Yuma’s shoulders. He felt so  _solid_ , which Yuma didn’t understand because he  _looked_  so… ethereal.

_The Seven Barian Lords have secrets. Horrible secrets, all of them. They all rose to the top through the blood of others. Their secrets will be their undoing. You have to find their secrets and bring them down._

Yuma had woken at that point, and sat in bed, angry. How dare his father push his own failures on him! He wanted to grow wheat and trade and someday find someone to fall in love with and get married and have children and live a normal life. He didn’t want adventure. Adventure had killed his father. Adventure had killed his mother.

He found the sword his father had given him before his disappearance, the sword that Yuma had locked up in a trunk for two years. It glistened as brightly as if he had just polished it the week before. He told Akari about his dream and she forbade him from joining the military but the  _feeling_ was so powerful. He needed to do it. Or his family would have been torn apart in vain.

“Was it worth it?” Anna said, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Ryoga and Astral only now seemed to notice that Yuma and Anna had stopped moving, and turned back. Ryoga’s eyes were questioning, but soft, and Astral bit his lip.  _Was_ it worth it? He had protected Astral. Surely that helped him atone for everything else.

“I guess I’ll find out when I die.”

He started walking again, and this time, Ryoga waited for him.

“Are you going to be all right?” he murmured, reaching for Yuma’s shoulder. He decided against it at the last second and let his hand fall to his side.

Anna glanced at the two of them and hurried to catch up with Astral, who stood several yards away. Yuma rubbed one of his eyes. “Yeah.”

They stood in uncomfortable silence for a long moment. Yuma didn’t know what to say –  _I’m sorry, I wish you would at least look at me without grimacing, I shouldn’t have dumped that on you when we have so much else to be worrying about right now than my childish emotions and wishes_ – but Anna cleared her throat loudly.

“Hey, at least keep moving or we’re going to run out of time. We’ve gotta be out of here before sunset.”

“Coming,” Yuma said, and Ryoga followed at his side.

“Yuma,” Ryoga began hesitantly.

Yuma shook his head. “No, I understand what…” He sighed. “It wasn’t the time or the place, and I was still trying to cope with what had happened. I was forceful and I made you uncomfortable and I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t uncomfortable,” Ryoga said unconvincingly, and Yuma raised an eyebrow at him. “Okay, it was a little-”

“You didn’t even look at me for two days.”

“Fine, I didn’t want to deal with it because we have other things to focus on and when that’s all over, then we can sort out-” Ryoga snapped his mouth shut, and it was clear he wasn’t going to finish that thought.

“Sort out  _what_?” Yuma rubbed both of his eyes. “There’s nothing to sort out.” He grabbed Ryoga’s arm and Ryoga finally looked him in the eyes. “We both know that everything we’re doing is going to end in failure.” He’d thought about it often over the past two days. They numbered less than a dozen, and were in varying degrees of emotional stability and physical health. There were seven extremely powerful Barian lords sitting atop the most extensive and powerful military force on the continent.

Even with this plant, they might be able to take down only a handful of them.

“Giving up?” This time, Ryoga convinced himself to lay a hand on Yuma’s shoulder. It made Yuma angry. “That’s not like you.”

“I’ve grown up.”

“Have you?”

Yuma turned to look at Ryoga, who was staring at him as they walked. “Ryoga, there’s nothing left.”

“You made a vow, remember? When you became a soldier. I gave you your badge and you swore to protect the Astral Kingdom with your last breath.”

“And I will-”

“And then you smiled at me and said that you would never give up.” Ryoga waved his hand flippantly. “’I’m going to  _kattobing_ , Captain.’”

Yuma remembered. He remembered it so clearly.

Ryoga shrugged. “All I’m saying is that you made Astral a promise and me a promise and I expect you to keep it.”

The sun had made its way steadily across the sky by the time they reached their destination, a pool of water that had largely dried up. Yuma doubted that this village would have survived this long regardless with such a meager water source.

“I never understood why these Barians needed food and water to live,” Anna muttered, clambering over boulders as she made her way to a thorny bush.

“There is hardly any Baria Crystal that grows here naturally,” Astral said, looking out at the water. “Barians use the Crystal as a source of energy much the same way humans need food for energy. Without the Crystal, these Barians must have needed the food and water to survive.”

“Seems silly that they wouldn’t ask the lords at Baria for any of the Crystal.”

“Perhaps they did but were turned down.”

“That’s shitty of them.” Anna knelt by the bush and pulled out a knife. “Wait, look.”

Ryoga bent over and peered at the bush. “Is that blood?”

“I think so. It looks kind of thick, though.” Anna touched it. “It’s dry, but barely.” She peered up at Ryoga. “Someone was here within the past few days. See?” She pointed at a part of the shrub were a few branches had been neatly sheared off.

Yuma frowned. “Who? And how did they know about this?”

Anna shrugged as she cut thorns from the branches and placed a few in her satchel. She straightened up. “I don’t know who was here before us, but we need to get out of here in a hurry. If we don’t, we might not get out of here at all.”

—-

“…and they rip people’s throats out and drink their blood and-”

“Would you  _shut up_!”

It was midafternoon now. Anna and the others had been gone for a few hours, and should be reaching the plant shortly if they hadn’t already, but Droite wished they would hurry up because Shingetsu was very quickly pressing on everyone’s tolerance levels, particularly Kaito’s. Kaito had been unearthing depleted soul gems buried all over the town square. It seemed odd to Droite that they would be there, especially if the whole town had allegedly been wiped out in the plague.

It was odder when Kaito had started placing them in the same pattern he unearthed them in and they started forming what looked like a distinctive symbol.

But Shingetsu was not helping unearth gems like some of the others were. He was being a nuisance, talking loudly about the horrible creatures that were said to come out in this village at night and how no one had ever survived.

“Shingetsu,” Kotori finally said in a tired voice, “if nobody’s ever lived through a night in this village, how have these tales spread, exactly?”

It  _was_ a good question, though. Anna had said how she’d heard the voices whispering inside the village. She had certainly survived it.

“If you’re one step outside the village walls at sunset, you’re fine,” Shingetsu insisted. “But if you’re inside when the sun goes down  _you never leave_.”

Kaito rolled his eyes so dramatically that he rolled his entire head. “I don’t really  _care_. If you’d keep your mouth shut for fifteen goddamn minutes, that’d be great.”

Shingetsu obliged, though he cast a narrow-eyed glare in Kaito’s direction and pulled a face.

A couple more hours passed, and Shingetsu was back to insisting tearfully that they leave,  _right now_ , because  _in another hour the sun will set and we’ll all die_. But Kaito wasn’t paying attention, because he seemed to have gotten somewhere with the soul gems.

Droite approached him and glanced out at the square, which wasn’t much of a square at all. A strange eight-pointed symbol lay on the dusty cobblestones, a smaller model of the pattern they had been buried in. Shingetsu shut up long enough to peer at it, an unreadable look crossing his face.

“Does this mean something to you?” Gauche muttered, scratching his head.

Kaito was quiet for a minute, studying the shape. “It looks like a modification of the Barian crest.”

Droite saw it now. But why would it be here, and who would have painstakingly collected soul gems from dead Barians in the middle of such a remote village?

_Ah._

“They weren’t just murdered,” she said, straightening up, but Kaito finished her sentence.

“They were sacrificed in a ritual.”

—-

The sun dipped behind a butte just as Astral and the others hurried back into the village, Anna holding the bag with the plant in it. Gauche was holding Shingetsu, who was trying to curl up while he whimpered –  _we’re going to die, we’re all going to die_  – and a strange crest was arranged in depleted soul gems on the cobbled walkway.

“We need to leave, now.” Ryoga swept past, lance at the ready, but he froze just as an eerie shadow was cast over the dead village.

“We’re too late,” Shingetsu sobbed, and when Gauche finally released his hold on him, he sank to the ground. Yuma bent down and tried to drag Shingetsu back to his feet.

Several ethereal figures appeared in front of the gate, headed by a young boy with silver hair and torn clothing. He had a familiar facial structure and eyes, or so Astral thought, but he couldn’t imagine  _why_ , because he had never been anywhere near here before.

_Bring us our justice._

The voice came from nowhere but everywhere at the same time. Astral felt the demand in his body, in his heart, as the boy reached out a scrawny finger and pointed in Yuma’s direction.

Shingetsu whined again and grabbed Yuma’s shoulders, pulling himself close to Yuma’s body. “Yuma, wh-why are they looking at us?”

“It’s okay, we’ll get out of this,” Yuma murmured, but there was fear in his eyes as he looked over at Astral.

“How?” Shingetsu wailed.

“You can start by shutting up!” Kaito barked, pulling out his sword.

_Give us our justice._

Astral’s heart raced. These creatures, these… dead villagers, perhaps, seemed focused on only one part of the group, the part in Yuma’s immediate vicinity. Did they want Yuma, for some reason? Shingetsu? Astral? Ryoga? Gauche?

Whoever they wanted – or maybe they would have everyone in the end – they were willing to take by force. They came closer, in an arc, and Astral realized they intended to trap the humans in a circle.

“Who are they?” Rio breathed, her rapier in her hand.

“The dead who have come back to life to punish those they think are responsible for their deaths,” Kaito muttered, backing away slowly. “The Barians call them demons, but that’s not… quite what they are.”

“What  _are_  they, then?” Shingetsu said shrilly, hands still gripping Yuma’s shoulders. “What do they want with us?”

“Revenants.” Kaito’s sword seemed to be keeping most of them back, though they still circled the group. “They could be particularly vengeful and kill anyone who comes here.”

_We will have our justice._

“Who sacrificed you?” Kaito said loudly, voice echoing throughout the village. The villagers turned their attention to him. “Why? Why this place?”

_Power._

Astral touched his pendant. He was supposed to have all the powers of the Astral World at his disposal. He was the true heir to the Astral throne. But he had failed multiple times now to summon Hope. Would this time be different? Could it?

_All it takes is to distance your soul from that of your emissary. You hold the Key. Draw your power from the Key and not from your soul and you will become one of the most powerful Summoners who ever lived._

Rabelais had never explained how, only that it was his duty to figure it out for himself. He always felt a kind of comfort when he touched the Key. His parents had bestowed it on him many years before. It was a gift from the gods, proof of his power. But it was more than proof of his power, wasn’t it?

_This is the source of my true power._

His desperation to free himself and his companions from these monsters, these  _revenants_  was all he had.  He could draw on his soul for Hope and drain his body – or he could try to make sense of what Rabelais had told him.

He gripped the Key and closed his eyes, focusing on drawing power to summon Hope. But this time, as the power rushed into him, he tried to direct it into the Key. His power flowed through him like powerful rapids, and he stumbled. A pair of hands caught him by the shoulders, a voice whispered in his ear, but he… he  _understood_.

The Key was a conduit for his power. By focusing it there, he used so much less of his own power, and it was  _so much stronger_.

He could do more than summon Hope. He could  _destroy_ these monsters, these revenants.

With hands outstretched, he watched in awe as a visible, pulsing power reverberated through the earth, pushing the creatures back. But they kept coming. A voice called to him, a voice that was close but felt so  _distant_ , because Astral realized with a jolt of terror, that he no longer had control of his body.

More power coursed through him, and he tried in vain to stem the tide, but it kept flowing. It flowed into his Key, which held his power like a well, and-

He heard screams, but they were quickly stifled as the ground beneath Astral’s feet simply melted away, and he fell back into a swirling white void. 


	32. The Lord's Servant

“Are you sure you don’t need more?”

It was hard for Durbe to ask this question. The thought of it repulsed him; he couldn’t imagine what Mizael thought of it. But he took each vial Durbe handed him and drank them. The first time he had choked it back up and vomited all over Durbe; his eyes had been wide with horror, his mouth twisted.  _What the hell is this_ , he all but screamed, but Durbe held him down and forced the liquid down his throat again, tried to explain that it was the antidote, that Mizael would die without it. Holding Mizael down in this state had been simple, because he had no strength to fight. He cried the second time, and the third, and by the fourth had resigned himself to it, though he still looked at Durbe with hurt, pleading eyes, their meaning all too clear.  _Why?_

“I’m sure,” Mizael whispered, clenching the bath robe he wore. It was one of Durbe’s, but he didn’t feel like going all the way to Mizael’s quarters to get Mizael’s robe. “You’ve given me enough for today, I think. I don’t want you to continue hurting yourself for me.”

How strange, that Mizael would show this much concern. “I don’t mind.” Truthfully, slicing into his arm and squeezing his own blood into a vial exhausted him. He felt lightheaded and perpetually thirsty. But for Mizael to get better, it was worth it, even if he hated himself for forcing the one he trusted above all others to drink his blood. “When you’re better, I’ll try to find another cure. In case it happens again.”

“We don’t have time.” Mizael closed his eyes. “ _You_  don’t have time. I am sorry I am inconveniencing you.”

“You’re never an inconvenience.” Durbe helped Mizael out of the bathrobe and into the bath. Mizael grimaced as Durbe helped sit him down in the water.

“It’s freezing.”

“It’s not freezing, Mizael. It’s actually quite warm.”

“ _You_ get in here and tell me it’s warm.”

Durbe smiled at Mizael’s disgruntlement. That was more like him. “A hot bath would not help your situation, but neither would depositing you in very cold water. We want your temperature to avoid extreme changes.” He pulled a chair to the side of the bath, a marble tub sitting in front of a balcony window, facing the west. The sun was about to set; he loved watching the multicolored hues that filled the sky seamlessly transition into darkness. He loved watching the stars come out, one by one.

But he wasn’t sure he would be able to enjoy sunsets quite as much anymore.

“Depositing me? What am I, a book?”

“You complain far too much.” Durbe tore his eyes away from the window and turned them to Mizael, who stared up at him with a puzzled expression.

“What’s wrong?”

Durbe contemplated telling Mizael about Sargasso, about the poison and the demons and his dead brother, about why and how he had discovered that his blood possessed some kind of property that killed the poison. But he couldn’t. The time wasn’t right.

_The time is never right,_  the wisest part of him said.

“Durbe?” Mizael pulled himself to the edge of the tub and leaned on it. The ends of his long hair cascaded into the water.

Durbe pulled his chair closer and reached for Mizael’s hair, pulling it out of the bath. Mizael shifted as Durbe separated the hair into three thick strands and began braiding it.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping your hair off your neck.” Durbe’s fingers moved clumsily through Mizael’s hair as he braided. He should probably have Mizael wash his hair now, since it had been a while since he had, but perhaps he would have a maid assist with that tomorrow. Braiding hair may not be something Durbe had ever really done before – what use does a lord with short hair have for braiding, after all – but it was something  _to_ do. “It should help keep you from getting too hot.”

To Mizael’s credit, he didn’t complain about this, either. He didn’t even laugh when Durbe finished and chunks of hair stuck out at odd angles. Instead, he turned in the tub, propping his arms on the side, and looked up at Durbe with soft eyes.

“What’s bothering you, Durbe?”

Durbe leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “Ilya came by to speak with me when you were… unconscious.”

Mizael’s confusion deepened. “Ilya? Why?”

“To…” He pressed a hand to his forehead. Why  _had_ she come? It was only by Durbe’s error that she noticed the blood on their lips. Had she planned some other kind of blackmail to force him to give in?  “She wants to know my plans.”

“Oh?” Mizael’s bare shoulders relaxed. The braid slipped off one of them, revealing the scarred skin where Vector had burned him. “You’re not in prison, so I’m sure you didn’t tell her anything.”

A tiny smile graced Durbe’s lips, but it was quickly replaced by a grimace. He stared at the burn for a moment. “Mizael, when you were… when you were about to die, I did something stupid.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Mizael stretched his legs out in the tub. He was too tall to do so comfortably, and his knees popped up out of the water.

“This is serious.”

“I know it is, because it’s coming from you.” Mizael reached for Durbe’s wrist and pulled his hand from his face. “Just tell me what it is.”

Durbe slowly turned his hand so it was gripping Mizael’s. His general’s eyes flickered on their hands for a moment, but didn’t say anything, and didn’t move. “Mizael, for some reason, my blood can neutralize that poison. In order to get it in you, I…” He took a shuddering breath. “I sucked some of the blood from my arm into my mouth and kissed you.”

Heavy silence fell.

Mizael’s expression morphed from confusion to concern to bewilderment to slight amusement to a grimace in quick succession, and eventually settled back on slight amusement. “My first kiss and I was unconscious.” 

It wasn’t the quip Durbe had expected. Mizael’s voice may have sounded casually amused but Durbe detected a hint of bitterness. “I’m sorry I took that choice away from you,” Durbe murmured.

Mizael shifted in the tub, pulling his arms out of the water to rest them casually on the sides. The burn scars on his shoulder stretched. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not like the choice would ever present itself to me anyway.” He became very interested in his fingernails, so he likely didn’t see the color flooding Durbe’s cheeks. 

“It was still wrong. I acted impulsively and without regard for—”

“Durbe,” Mizael interrupted, moving both arms to the side and leaning toward Durbe, “I assure you, I would not have disapproved of what you did had I been aware of it.”

“It… it wasn’t romantic, Mizael, I—“

“You would have wanted me conscious if it was,” Mizael said softly, and Durbe couldn’t bring himself to deny it. “Instead, you were trying to save my life. I can’t be angry for that.”

“Ilya thinks—“

“When have you ever given a damn what any of them thinks? It doesn’t matter what Ilya thinks, because whatever she thinks happened didn’t.”

Durbe’s chest clenched painfully. He could have laughed at the absurdity of it all – kneeling next to the sick, emaciated, naked human form of his most trusted friend, sharing his fears and secrets, and knowing that any other two Barians who shared a fraction of what he had with Mizael would be considering a soul transfer,  _knowing_ that he and Mizael never  _could_  because he was a lord and Mizael his servant – but instead, he felt so… empty.

“It can’t,” he whispered, lifting his free hand to Mizael’s bangs. He brushed them away from Mizael’s face and tucked them behind his ear. The ornament that Durbe had given him upon their joint coronation dangled against Durbe’s hand. He remembered how Mizael had smiled back then. It was the last time he had seen a smile of joy, of pride on Mizael’s face. He wanted to see it again one day. “If I wasn’t a lord…”

“Then you wouldn’t be in this position. Neither of us would.”

Durbe gave a strangled laugh, but there was no humor in it. “I doubt we would have even half the bond we have.”

“I suppose I should be grateful.” Mizael’s voice was soft, small, uncharacteristic of him. “You’re the only one who ever cared to look past what others see when they look at me and extend a hand of friendship.”

“Mizael…”

“You believe you took the choice to experience that human form of affection from me,” Mizael interrupted in a rush. He turned his face away; it was red again, but Durbe suspected it was not from the fever this time. “I want to make that choice now. As long as… you’re willing, too.”

Durbe’s heart pounded as he leaned closer. “Are you… sure?”

“Of course I am.” Mizael’s hands were clamped on the side of the tub but he held his chin high as he faced Durbe. “We’ve been together this long… there’s no one else who would—“

Durbe laughed weakly. “I’m not your last resort, am I?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant, Mizael.” Durbe cupped Mizael’s cheek, brushing his thumb over the marks. It was the first time he had touched them. They were slightly elevated, rough. “Burn scars?”

“Koche’s branding. He had the scars tattooed so the red would never fade.”

Durbe clenched his free hand. “I’m sorry. For thirty years, I never asked.”

“I’m glad you never thought to.”

Mizael leaned up as Durbe leaned down, and before Durbe could give himself time to overthink the situation, he closed his eyes and pushed their lips together.

For as long as he had spent studying humans in his life, Durbe thought himself an expert on them. Kissing, to him, seemed like a straightforward experience – two humans pressing their lips together in a gesture of affection. But as they sat there with their lips touching, shifting slightly for a more comfortable fit, Durbe felt… perhaps not  _disappointed,_  but underwhelmed. It was certainly a pleasant experience to his body – he felt a tingle running all the way to his toes, a shudder in his heart – but it didn’t feel  _genuine_. Humans kissed all the time with no meaning. Durbe had seen it dozens of times. No, what he and Mizael had together transcended human attraction, human affection.

What he wanted was to give Mizael part of his soul.

Mizael’s wet hand touched Durbe’s face and Durbe snapped his eyes open again. “It wasn’t  _that_ bad, was it?”

It took Durbe a moment to realize that he had shed tears. The look in Mizael’s eyes – the soft, sorrowful look that Durbe saw so rarely and never directed at anyone but him – told Durbe all he needed to know. Mizael felt it too.

“It was wonderful. Just…”

“Incomplete.”

Durbe nodded.

Mizael’s eyebrows pushed together as his hand gripped Durbe’s scarf. “How complete  _could_  we feel, Durbe? What is it like to feel… whole?”

This time, Durbe pulled himself closer and grabbed the back of Mizael’s head, gripping his hair, and he felt Mizael’s hand find his hair in return with one hand as the other fumbled to unknot Durbe’s scarf. It didn’t matter to Durbe in that desperate moment that he was the lord and Mizael his general, or that his general was naked and sick and in the bath, or that they  _couldn’t_ do exactly what they both wanted to do, because Mizael didn’t even have his soul gem on him. Reason and logic and common sense told him that he would ruin his ambitions should anyone find out about this, and that Ilya already had her suspicions that would be perfectly justified, but the part of him that longed to give Mizael some artificial semblance of completeness ignored reason and logic and simply cursed the fact that the bathtub was in the way.

Had Mizael not broken the kiss to slump tiredly into Durbe’s arms at that moment, Durbe wasn’t sure how far he would have taken it.

“Sorry,” Mizael murmured into Durbe’s chest. "Tired..." 

“No need to apologize.” Durbe wrapped his arms around Mizael and started lifting him from the tub. Mizael shivered as his body was exposed to the cool air, and just as Durbe started wrapping his robe around Mizael’s body, a blinding light filled the darkening sky.

Mizael squeezed his eyes shut against the light, but Durbe was captivated by it, and it took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t coming from the sky, but the forest floor, several miles away from the palace.

As suddenly as it appeared, it was gone.

“What the hell was that?” Mizael muttered, opening his eyes again.

“I don’t know.”

They stared out the window together for a long time, Mizael’s hand still holding Durbe’s loose scarf and Durbe’s hands halfway through helping Mizael put his robe on.

“I’ll send Alit and Gilag to investigate,” Durbe said finally, staring once more at the burn on Mizael’s shoulder. He resisted the urge to touch it, to see how deep the damage went. The fact that all this Healing didn’t get rid of it indicated it was irreparable, and Durbe fought down a flash of anger toward Vector. He contemplated the scars on Mizael’s face next, and allowed himself to touch them again. Even thirty years later, the scars were a bright red against Mizael’s pale skin. A tattoo, Mizael said, to keep the mark from fading. A permanent reminder to all that Mizael was unwanted by Barians and unwelcome to humans. A permanent reminder that no one would ever want or desire him, body or soul. But Koche and the others had been wrong. “You can stay here and sleep in my bed. It’s more comfortable.”

“They’ll talk,” Mizael reminded him.

_Let them_ , the nonsensical part of Durbe said, but his logic won out. “I’ll stay in your room, then. If anyone asks, it wouldn’t be a lie to say that you needed more private quarters for your rest and I offered to switch with you.” He tightened Mizael’s robe and looked up. “Someday, I’ll be the king.”

“I know.” Mizael let Durbe take his hand and lead him back into Durbe’s chambers. “I intend to be there at your side when you are.”

—-

Every inch of Yuma’s body seared with pain as he slowly stirred. He was lying face down on cool, damp earth, and the smell of decaying vegetation filled his nose. It was nowhere near the Waste, he realized before he opened his eyes.

Towering trees surrounded him, trees with strong, thick bark and blossoming branches, and if he hadn’t known it was nighttime he might have thought the trees were blocking the sunlight. It was cool, even chilly, and Yuma pulled his cloak tight as he pushed himself painfully to his knees. The only sound was the wind rustling the leaves and an occasional chirrup from the forest’s birds.

“Astral? Captain?”

His voice was drowned by the forest, by the soft hoots and chirps that filled the air instead.  _Where am I?_

He pressed the palm of his hand into his head and closed his eyes again. His head pounded.

_We were in the Waste…_

That was it; they were in the Waste and those dead villagers were coming closer… Astral had been gripping his Key, focusing…

There was a flash of light…

And suddenly Yuma was here.

“Astral? Ryoga?” He stumbled to his feet and swayed against a dizzy spell. “Kotori? Anna?”

“Yuma…” a faint voice called from somewhere to his left.

“Shingetsu?” Yuma forced his legs to move toward the voice. “Is anyone with you?”

“I… Prince Astral, but-”

Yuma’s heart pounded as he broke into a half-stumbling run. Shingetsu’s voice sounded scared, and if Astral wasn’t answering for himself, then-

_No,_ Yuma told himself.  _He’s all right. He has to be._

Shingetsu was kneeling by Astral’s body, eyes wide. “Yuma, is he alive?”

_He has to be_. Yuma fell to the ground on Astral’s other side and pressed his fingers to Astral’s neck, but they shook so much that he couldn’t have felt a pulse if Astral were sitting up and talking to him. He pressed his face to Astral’s chest, closing his eyes as he prayed to hear a heartbeat.

_If you don’t want the Barians to control this continent, you will keep him alive, you bastards._

It was there; faint, but he felt a heartbeat. His shoulders relaxed.

“Astral?”

There was no response.

“Is he okay?” Shingetsu whispered.

“He’s alive. I don’t know about okay.” Yuma took Astral’s hand. “I don’t even know where we are, or how we got here.”

Shingetsu wrinkled his brow. “I remember a really bright light.” He leaned over Astral, closer to Yuma. “Where’s everyone else?”

Thinking about how his friends were missing was too much to deal with. “I don’t know, I-” His voice broke and he bit down on his lip to keep it from quivering.  _I’ve shed too many tears for my friends,_  he told himself.

_You open yourself up too easily,_  his mind replied, _so you hurt yourself in the end. You’ll always hurt yourself in the end._

“We’ll wait until Astral wakes,” Yuma said, clearing his throat. His head felt like it was about to split in half. “Until then, we should rest.”

_If you ever get separated from the main column, head to the Shrine._

“And after that, I’ll figure out where we are so we can head to the Shrine.”

“Why there?” Shingetsu sat back on the balls of his feet.

_Eventually I will find you there._

“It’s a safe place. Captain Kamishiro knows to go there if we get split up.”

_If he’s alive._

Shingetsu pursed his lips. He looked worried. “But… what if…”

“He’ll be there,” Yuma said firmly.

_I promise._

“He promised.”

—-

Ever since meeting that  _man_ and his  _sister_  and that  _annoying prince_  and these _murderers,_  Anna’s entire life had been one big fiasco after another.

She’d been trapped in a village with a bunch of dead, malicious spirit demon _things_  about to kill her when  _suddenly_ she’d ended up face down in the middle of a forest, gods knew how far away.

So when she’d found Gauche and Droite and the woman who talked to animals (it had been very disconcerting to listen to her making strangled hissing noises at the snakes in the Waste) lying nearby, Anna had simply cursed her luck in being separated from those damn men who had ruined her life, because they deserved for her to punch them again. (Oh, but had that been satisfying to see Ryoga’s nose bleeding.)

But her luck had finally changed.

Maybe it was this  _fate_ that Ryoga prattled on about all the time, or maybe it was the gods taking pity on her for a change, but whatever it was, Anna had been dropped right at the doorstep of the very person she had needed to see.

He crossed his arms over his apron and lifted an eyebrow at Anna’s travelling companions, but he invited them in.

“Forgive the mess,” he mumbled, dragging a couple of chairs into the tiny sitting room. Anna nudged a pile of sword hilts out of the way with her foot before sitting. “I’m in the middle of a commission.”

“About that.” Anna turned in her chair. “Mind moving us up in the queue?”

He rolled his eyes. “My client is a mage.”

“A Barian?” Gauche stood behind Droite, crossing his arms.

The man turned his gaze to Gauche. “No. A human.”

“What’s a mage?” Cathy said loudly, perching on the seat of her chair.

“Humans who can warp the elements to their will,” Anna said tiredly, but Cathy tilted her head in confusion. Naturally; this woman was completely unread. “They can… make fire and water and air do what they want.”

“Human mages are very uncommon,” Droite remarked. “They get killed off by other humans who think they’re cohorts with Barians.”

“Even Barians who can do that are very rare,” Anna muttered. “I’ve heard that two of the Seven Emperors of Baria have those powers.”  _Even then, one of them has weak powers compared to the other._

“So you can probably imagine why I’d like to get his weapons done first,” the man interrupted.

Anna sighed. “Tetuso, it’s really important.”

“More important than keeping a mage happy?” Tetsuo picked up a hammer and moved to his workspace.

“Remember that lance I had you make a while back?”

Tetsuo paused. “That lance took me two weeks on its own. I’m not making another one for the pittance you paid me.”

“Not another lance, Tetuso.”

“Good, I would have said no.”

“I need as many weapons as we can make out of my alloy.”

“Damn it, Anna, that alloy took forever to work into a-”

“These weapons will kill Barians.”

Anna grimaced. Droite was standing now, tapping her foot impatiently. “You shouldn’t have told him that, Droite-”

Tetuso set the hammer down and stepped back. “I’m not getting involved in this. That is  _treason_.”

“Do you know what else is treason?” Droite moved closer, pulling a knife out of her belt. Anna tried to grab Droite’s hand but at the assassin’s withering glare abandoned her attempts. “That lance you made?” She slammed the knife into Tetsuo’s table. He yanked his hand back. “It’s now in the hands of a Dragoon by the name of Ryoga Kamishiro.” She cocked her head. “What would the Barians say if they know it came from your smith?”

Tetsuo’s face was pale as he turned to Anna. “You sold it to a wanted criminal?”

Anna held her hands out. “I didn’t exactly  _sell_ it.” She hadn’t exactly known he was a criminal at that time, either.

“Hurry up and finish the mage’s weapon,” Gauche suggested, pulling Droite’s knife from the table. “Anyone ahead of us in line can wait.”

—-

Whatever fate had landed him here was cruel indeed.

Ryoga stood in the middle of a clearing, grasping Rio’s hand. Nearby, Kotori bent over Kaito, Healing him despite his weak protests. It looked like any forest clearing. It could have been any forest clearing, with thick, fertile soil and the unmistakable signs of a controlled forest fire.

But the Kamishiros had been here.

They had lived here, years ago, and relived it in their nightmares.

“Why?” Rio whispered, pulling him closer. “What happened that would lead us back… after all this time?”

Behind them, Kotori hissed at Kaito to  _sit down and rest_ but the sound of snapping twigs, along with a sigh of frustration, told Ryoga that Kaito wasn’t heeding her warning.

“What happened?” Kaito demanded. “Where are we? Where are the others?”

Ryoga could answer only one of those questions, and he didn’t want to do even that. Fortunately, Rio answered for him.

“The easternmost strip of the Astral Kingdom.” She released her brother’s hand and knelt on the ground. “The farthest north part of the Wyvern Forest, bordering the Arclight Kingdom.”

Growing up as a prince guaranteed that Kaito would receive a grounded education in geography, and Ryoga could practically see Kaito drawing the map in his mind. Finally, Kaito closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

“I see.” Kaito walked ahead of them, brushing the soil with his foot, gazing around. “It doesn’t look like there was ever anything here.”

Ryoga thrust a shaking hand toward the edge of the treeline. “Our house was there. Mara lived a couple doors down.” He pointed at the ground beneath them. “ _This_  was our communal garden. Each dozen houses shared one. We grew corn and beans. Squash, in the autumn.” Rio made a soft noise and tugged at Ryoga’s hand, but he couldn’t stop. “It was autumn when it happened.”

Kaito was strangely quiet, watching Ryoga carefully. He didn’t say a word, even as Ryoga started walking around the square. When he closed his eyes, it was real again. He could see the fire, hear the screams, smell the smoke, the blood, the  _death_.

“We got back one night. We’d been out later than usual, and there was nobody here. Then…  _they_  were.”

“Ryoga,” Rio pleaded, grabbing him by the arm again. “Stop.”

“They  _murdered_ her!” Ryoga’s voice echoed through the silent trees. Not even a bird twittered. No insect chirped. The air was as dead as their village. “Over there. They cut her throat. We watched her bleed onto…” He took a deep breath. “The village was supposed to be protected.”

He was unaware at what point he fell to his knees, only that Rio was on the ground next to him, wiping his face. Her eyes were full of tears, but she held his face firmly in hers before pulling him in a tight embrace as they sat on the ashes of their childhood home.


	33. From the Ashes

Durbe pushed a charred wooden roof beam out of his path with the tip of his foot. The stench of burned flesh and cedar logs mingled in the hazy air, filled still with smoke as several houses smoldered to ashes. The village had been small; maybe three hundred fifty Dragoons had occupied it. Three hundred fifty out of a race that had once numbered nearly two thousand.

It was such a shame.

“Captain?”

He turned to the slender Barian behind him. Mizael’s face was covered in soot, and nicks covered his face and hands, in which he still held his bow. His quiver had two arrows left in it; it had started with thirty. Mizael was one of the best archers Durbe had ever met. At least twenty-eight Dragoons were dead because of Mizael. Of that, Durbe was certain.

“You know that they never cremate their dead?” Durbe said quietly, gently pushing a charred body out of the way with his foot as he walked out of the demolished home into the village square, Mizael close behind. “Their bodies are supposed to become one with the earth after death. When ashes are scattered, it doesn’t guarantee that the entire body will be recycled into the earth.” When Mizael remained silent, Durbe sighed and looked around the forest clearing that had once housed the elders and other spiritual leaders. Several nearby cedars had been caught in the crossfire, and two had fallen in on nearby houses.

“I have a gift for you, for when we return. A beautiful sword.”

“Looted from the dead, no doubt.”

“Found tucked away in a chest. It would be better served in your capable hands than left to rust here.”

“Keep it for yourself.”

“I have no skill with swords, Mizael.”

Mizael clenched his fists and stared through the trees, facing west.

“Three children escaped.”

“They’re just children. They won’t get far.”

“I hated doing this, Durbe. It was dishonorable.”

Durbe didn’t answer at first. He knelt by another body, one of a child. A little girl, holding a doll made of a dried corn cob. She had been perhaps eight or nine years old when one of Durbe’s soldiers had put a sword through her body. He would never forget the way her hands convulsed, and how she couldn’t even make a sound before she fell to the forest floor. There were Barian bodies too; the Dragoons had been ruthlessly efficient warriors, even taken by surprise.

“Sometimes we have to do unpleasant things for the greater good,” Durbe murmured finally.

“Unpleasant.” Mizael shook his head in disgust and stepped over another body. “I’m glad to know that you consider genocide to be something _unpleasant_.”

A group of soldiers moved into the clearing where Durbe and Mizael stood, and Durbe leaned close to Mizael, gripping his shoulder armor. “You promised me you would do anything to help me become a lord. This is it, Mizael. They’re already talking about a promotion. We’re so close.”

“Captain, we can’t find any survivors,” one of the officers announced, giving Durbe a salute. “Your orders?”

Mizael turned his face away. “You’ll fit right in with the rest of them.”

“Mizael-”

“Captain?” The officer sounded somewhat impatient.

Durbe closed his eyes and pulled Mizael closer. “Mizael, do I have your support or not?”

They locked gazes again. There was a strange look in Mizael’s eyes. Pity. Regret.  _Does he regret following me, even after twenty years?_

Durbe could hardly blame him for that.

“I will see you as king if it kills me,” Mizael whispered.

“Captain, with all due respect-”

“Burn it,” Durbe said, raising his voice, not taking his eyes from Mizael’s face.

Mizael closed his eyes. Yes, there was regret there. How long would Mizael feel this way?

“Burn it?” the officer repeated.

Durbe turned to them and lifted his chin. “Burn the entire village. Bodies, houses, gardens, everything. Burn it until there is nothing but ashes to be carried off in the wind.”

He walked away from that village clearing, leaving Mizael standing rigidly on the bloodstained earth.  _It will be worth it in the end_ , he told himself. It would be worth it even though he had bathed his soul in the blood of an entire race, and that blood would never wash off.

**—-**

Predictably, Mizael found Durbe sitting alone in the dining hall with a cup of coffee. It was early, barely past sunrise, yet Durbe was already dressed in his pristine white coat and trousers. He couldn’t remember if Durbe had told him he had a diplomatic appointment that day, but he felt a stab of irritation that Durbe would consider leaving him behind.

“Good morning,” Durbe said, sipping at his coffee. A sheaf of papers sat in front of him, full of crossed-out words and scribbles. He gestured at the seat next to him.

Mizael sat. “Were you going to tell me you had something important to do today?” He couldn’t hide the irritation from his voice, and he knew his human face betrayed him as well. Durbe pulled a small vial from his inner pocket and Mizael closed his eyes. “I don’t need it.” He felt better, though he was still exhausted and it was too warm in the palace.

“Yes you do. You’re flushed. Drink it and then have some water.”

Mizael wordlessly grabbed the vial and drank it in two swallows. His stomach heaved as usual, and he had to bend over to keep from throwing it up. Durbe brushed his hair back and handed him a goblet full of water, which Mizael drank quickly. The metallic taste in his mouth lingered.

“Eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It’ll cleanse your palate.”

“I don’t want anything.”

Durbe set down his coffee. A quick glance at the half-empty pot sitting on the table was enough to tell Mizael that Durbe had already consumed too much of the drink for this early in the day. With a slightly shaking hand, Durbe picked up his pen and placed the tip over his parchment. “How did you sleep?”

“I slept well.” Mizael had slept soundly through the night for the first time that he could remember. Durbe’s bed had been incredibly comfortable. The smell of Durbe that lingered on the pillows and sheets had soothed Mizael, though he would never admit that out loud. “Better than you, it seems.”

There were heavy circles under Durbe’s eyes, his cheeks were sunken and pale, and his lips were dry and cracked. Despite Durbe’s attempts to look presentable for whatever he was doing, he was clearly not up for the task. He lifted the cup to his lips again, but Mizael pulled it out of his hand and set it out of reach. Durbe looked at it longingly before slouching his shoulders resignedly. “I haven’t slept well in months.”

“I noticed.” There was nobody else awake now, and not even a maid or servant was in the hall. He could reach for Durbe’s hand, try to convince him to put off his duties for the day and go back to bed…

…no, he wouldn’t listen anyway.

Durbe tapped his pen rapidly on the table. He was on edge, and the coffee had made it worse. “Mizael, I… had a dream.”

It was rare for Durbe to dream at all, even on the nights where he managed adequate sleep. “About?”

He scratched his arm for a moment. “The Dragoons.”

What a peculiar thing for Durbe to suddenly be reminded of at this point. It had been ten years and Durbe hardly gave it a second thought unless someone mentioned it. “Any reason why?”

“I don’t-” The instinctive lie died on his tongue, and he fell silent again. He was going to hurt himself if he kept scratching at his arm like that. Mizael grabbed his wrist.

“Does this have to do with that… that stupid plan for the future that you told me about before  _this_ happened?”

“You regretted it back then,” Durbe murmured, not looking at him. He pulled his hand free and resumed shuffling the papers aimlessly. “How much more you must regret staying with me now that you know my goal.”

“We can’t coexist with humans.”

“It’s the only way to have peace, Mizael.” Durbe rubbed his eyes.

He didn’t want to hear this again. Durbe may have had the best intentions, but he was going about it wrong. “Your years spent studying them has made you into an idealist. It’s nice in theory, but I don’t think the world works that way. Barians will  _never_  consent to living as humans, no matter how dangerous the birth rate decline.”

Durbe smiled. It held no warmth. “We’re going to leave for Heartland in two hours. Is that enough time to get ready?”

He wasn’t surprised that Durbe deliberately ignored his rebuttal. “We?”

“You’re feeling better, aren’t you?”

He was, physically, but that didn’t mean he felt up to creating a portal. That required more energy than simply walking around unassisted. But he was tired of lying around, and he was tired of feeling useless and dependent. “Yes. That’s enough time.”

Durbe nodded at his papers. “At the end of the day, we will have complete control over four-fifths of this continent.” He pushed his chair back and stood. Mizael followed suit and grabbed at the sleeve of Durbe’s coat. Durbe looked up at him, a hint of surprise in his deadened eyes.

“I don’t.”

“You don’t what?”

Mizael released Durbe’s coat just as the doors opened and a maid scurried in, mumbling greetings at them. He ignored her. “I don’t regret following you. I may mourn the lives you had me take and ruin, but I will never regret  _you_.”

—-

Akari grunted unintelligibly at the hand shaking her shoulder. Her bed was comfortable and warm, and the sun was only now shining weakly into the room. It wasn’t time to wake up just yet.

“Time to go,” a familiar voice said.

She buried her face deeper into her pillow. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“We have a meeting in the Astral Kingdom. I’ve told you this for three days.”

Had he? She hadn’t listened, apparently. “Go by yourself.”

There was a sigh of irritation, immediately followed by his hands on her shoulders, and the next thing she knew, he had pulled her to a sitting position. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you that you need to tend to your duties, no matter how much you don’t want to?”

She scowled and pulled up the strap on her nightshirt. “They’re not  _my_ duties, Christopher. I never asked for Vector to kidnap and torture me and my grandmother for two weeks. And I  _certainly_ never asked to be forcibly married to a man who allied himself with the same Barians who are responsible for my father’s death in the first place.”

Chris sat back and pulled his hands from her shoulders. She had caught his flinch at the mention of his alliance with the Barians and she felt a wave of anger. Regret? She wanted to laugh. If he truly regretted it, he wouldn’t keep going along with it. He would fight back, take his kingdom back, or die trying. Wasn’t that true loyalty?

Before he could say anything, there was a knock at the door, and it opened with no further preamble.

Mihael stood in the doorway in his travelling clothes, sword at his waist. Next to him was a lean, oval-faced man with a mop of the reddest hair Akari had ever seen on a person, wearing travelling robes of a matching color. He gave a curt bow in Chris’s direction and fixed his green eyes on Akari.

“Lord Christopher. And you must be Lady Akari.” He gave her a strained smile, as though he was trying to smirk and wasn’t sure how his mouth should move. “I have heard of you from your father.”

Her stomach clenched. “Who the hell are you?”

“Forgive me.” He gave her a more proper bow. “I am Alasco, of the Seven Barian Emperors.”

“What business did my  _father_  have with one of-”

Chris clapped a hand to her mouth and stood quickly. His face was pale. “I am sorry for my wife’s behavior, Lord Alasco, but she’s been through quite a lot in recent weeks-”

“I understand.” Alasco held out a hand. “May I?”

Akari reached up and pulled Chris’s hand away even as he gestured for Mihael and Alasco to enter the room. “I think I have the right to know what my father was doing conversing with a Barian emperor, Chris.”

“I agree, but this is not the right way to go about asking,” Chris murmured. He turned back to Alasco, who settled himself in the chair by the window. “Did you come to speak with Lord Durbe?”

“Mm? Oh, not really.” Alasco leaned back in the chair. “I just missed him, anyway. He and his general are meeting Lord Ilya in Heartland today. No, I was here to ask Lady Akari about her brother.”

“I have nothing to say to you about him,” she spat. How dare this  _monster_ come in and mock her like this. “Get out of my room.”

“Lady Akari, you should be more polite,” Mihael said quietly. “Lord Alasco is our esteemed guest.”

Akari turned her gaze to Mihael. He was the softest of the three brothers, in demeanor and speech, and she rather liked him. She felt as though he and Yuma would have been able to be friends in any other situation. “I don’t need to be polite to a-”

Her eyes fell on his sword hilt and she froze.

“Such an irascible temper,” Alasco remarked, turning his chair so he was facing the bed. He didn’t seem to notice that she was staring at Mihael and not him. “Unlike Kazuma, who was a very forgiving man.” He laughed quietly. “Too forgiving, in many ways.”

This accurate summation of her father’s personality barely registered in Akari’s mind. Why did Mihael have her father’s sword? Why did he have _Yuma’s_ sword?

“-tolerate you being rude but I will not tolerate you ignoring me.”

Alasco dropped the air of politeness and was now glaring at her. She fought down the desire to climb from her bed and take the sword from Mihael and instead pulled her sheets close. “I don’t know anything about Yuma. He left home two years ago and we didn’t…”

Gods, she regretted not speaking to him for two years. She knew of his experience when Arclight fell – it had broken her heart, holding him while his body shook from the pain of listening to Durbe recount it – but she knew nothing of the intervening year. Had he been a good soldier? Did people like him? Did he see the world or was he stuck in the Astral Kingdom the whole time?

The Kamishiros… she had met them only for a few seconds, but Yuma had mentioned the man, both in his report and in the last words she had heard him speak, as she held him in that cell. Ryoga.  _We’re friends of Yuma’s_ , they had said, but if they were truly his friends, how could they let him be taken like that? Where had they been when Yuma needed friends the most?

“He escaped,” Alasco said curtly, folding his hands. “Along with Prince Astral. You may not have spoken to him in two years prior to his capture, but you were the last ones seen with him.” His gaze swept toward Chris, who gripped Akari by the hand. It was a protective gesture. It was almost comforting. “Where is Yuma Tsukumo?”

“We don’t know,” Chris said icily. “In case you were unaware, Yuma Tsukumo and Prince Astral escaped at the same time when Akari and I were being married.”

“You still could have aided him or his rescuers.” Alasco stood. Though shorter by far than even Akari, he held himself imposingly. “Did you?”

“No.” Chris released Akari’s hand and climbed to his feet. “I think you should go.”

Alasco pressed his lips together. “We’ll get to know each other quite well over the next week, Lady Akari.”

She felt a sudden chill. “What do you mean?”

“I’m accompanying you on your journey to the Astral Kingdom, of course.”

“Why? And why will it take us a week?” She turned to Chris. “Are we travelling by foot?”

“Ship,” Chris muttered, frowning at Alasco. “It’s safer.”

“Can’t they make those portals and have us there in minutes?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Alasco said wryly. “I could, of course, transport myself, but transporting more than one person through a portal takes a great deal of energy.”

“Vector did,” Akari argued. “He dragged my grandmother and me through one with him.”

She still remembered him kicking the front door in unannounced and grabbing her. She remembered the icy touch of his hands, the rough skin, and his nails digging into her forearm. He had summoned a portal effortlessly and yanked Akari and Haru along with him. There had been a sensation of falling… and then she had landed in a courtyard.

“At the time,” Alasco mused, frowning slightly now, “Vector had absorbed a great deal of energy from the king. Under normal circumstances, the level of energy required for such a feat would be too great for most Barians.”

Her stomach churned at the thought of Vector murdering her king, but she kept her voice steady. “Why are you coming with?”

Alasco shrugged. “It’s been a long time since I was able to view up close the empire I helped to build.” A twisted smile graced his lips. “After all, by the time we pass through Heartland, it will be ours as well.” He inclined his head slightly and swept out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“Gods, he’s more terrifying than Durbe,” Akari muttered as his footsteps echoed down the hall. Her heart raced. “What does he really want?”  _And what does he know of my father? Why would my father ever even converse with him?_

“I don’t know.” Chris sat back down on the edge of the bed. “Mihael, did he say anything?”

Mihael stared at the ground. “I don’t think Lord Durbe knows he’s here, or that he’s joining you on your visit to see Lord Vector.” He glanced up. “It may be imprudent of me to say, but I have a feeling the Barian lords are acting against each other.”

It sounded preposterous to Akari, but Chris nodded slowly. “I overheard Durbe ordering Alit and Gilag out to the forest this morning to investigate something. He told them not to tell anyone where they were going.”

“I wonder if he’s afraid,” Mihael said thoughtfully. “He almost lost General Mizael. I think he has a difficult time trusting people.”

“Do you think one of the other lords had-”

“Mihael,” Akari interrupted, and Chris shot her an annoyed look. “Where did you get that sword?” She had been bursting to ask since she saw it, but she didn’t want to bring it up with Alasco. It was a special sword, her father had explained upon giving it to Yuma, and she didn’t want the Barians to know that and possibly confiscate it.

Mihael touched the hilt in surprise. “What? Oh, I… I received it from Lord Vector when he… took it from your brother.”

“Why would Vector give it to-”

 _No_ , that couldn’t…

She inhaled a shallow breath. “Who brought my brother to Vector in the first place, Mihael?”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. His gaze dropped to the floor again, and that was all that Akari needed to know.

—-

Frigid winds roared around her, whipping up tiny particles of ice that sliced into her skin. All around her was white – mounds of snow, perhaps, or nothing at all. She tightened her arms against her chest and closed her eyes. Maybe if she willed herself to wake, she wouldn’t have to endure this again.

“Rio Kamishiro.”

It was too much to hope for. Rio shook her head. “I won’t.”

The creature she knew she would see when she opened her eyes didn’t speak. The slender creature, encrusted in iced gems, the creature that had haunted her dreams for far too long.  _Sylphine_ , it called itself.

“Leave me.”

“Time is running short.”

Rio finally looked up and laughed, her breath rising in puffs in the frigid air. “Go back to the Astral World and tell them that I will make my own choices. I don’t need you.”

“Your salvation is at stake.”

She was weary of this conversation. They had it every time. She doubted Sylphine was even programmed to say anything other than the same tired refrains, but the faster they got through this, the faster she could wake from this dream and return to the place where her nightmares were made real. A lousy tradeoff, but she would at least have her brother with her there. “And why are the gods so invested in my and Ryoga’s salvation?”

 _You are the last of the Dragoons,_ Sylphine would say. It was always the same.

But not this time.

It floated through the air toward her, light as if it had been carried on the wind despite its heavy-looking crystal armor. It reached for her, and Rio’s breath hitched as it placed a frozen hand on her neck.

“Unlike everyone around you,” it whispered, “you do not have a place in the Astral World without me.”

Rio tried to move her lips, to form a response -  _why, that doesn’t make sense, it goes against everything I have ever been taught_  – but no sound escaped her.

“You will be lost if you reject me.”

It finally released her throat and she fell to her knees, gasping for air. Her throat burned, and as she rubbed it with numb fingers, she turned her eyes back up to the creature.

“I will redeem you.”

“From what?” Rio choked out hoarsely.

“Your sin.”

“What sin?” She was becoming more desperate to escape this dream than before. “I have no sins against the Astral World.”

“Accept me, and you will be saved.”

She screamed in frustration. “You damn things torment me and my brother with vague threats and promises of redemption from the gods know what-”

“The gods do know.” Sylphine held out a hand. “As a Dragoon, you are expected to serve without question. To accept the will of the Astral World without reservation. And yet you refuse me?”

“A show of faith?” Rio laughed wildly. “Is that what this is? Go back to the gods and tell them thanks for nothing. Thanks for letting our kingdom be destroyed. Thanks for making us relive our nightmares time and time again. Thanks for coming between us and the people we love.”

“The gods are offering you the power to change the fate of this planet,” Sylphine said. It was unfazed by Rio’s outburst. “Do you not want the power to change fate?”

 _Fate_. Ryoga went along with it because he wanted a purpose when he had nothing else. But Rio didn’t. It was a meaningless construct, and any fate the gods wanted her to change would only place her squarely back on the ends of their strings. “I will change fate with my own power.”

Sylphine closed its eyes. “You reject me, then?”

“I reject you.”

—-

A strangled scream cut through the otherwise silent village, pulling Kaito from his thoughts. It came from the other side of the fire where the women slept. Ryoga immediately had his weapon in his hand as he crawled around the fire toward his sister, who was thrashing in the Healer’s arms.

“Rio! Rio!”

Kotori murmured to the woman, whose breaths were sharp and rattled. Her hands clawed at Kotori’s cloak and clenched the sleeves as if she were going to fall down an endless chasm if she didn’t.

“What’s happening?” Kotori whispered, clutching Rio closer. “Why is she doing this?”

Ryoga shook his head and grabbed Rio’s hand. “Rio, it’s okay. It was a nightmare. That’s all.”

Rio’s body shook between them as she cast her eyes wildly about the clearing before they rested on her brother’s face. “Ryoga?”

“Yeah.”

Kaito stood a few feet back from his travelling companions. Ever since waking up in this village, the Kamishiros had been on edge, and he could understand why. The last time they were here, everyone they had ever known was murdered by the Barians. Even Kaito felt sorrow here. In a way, he felt closer to the Kamishiros, now that he knew what they had gone through.

“What if I did the wrong thing?” Rio whispered. Her voice sounded hoarse.

Ryoga made a strange sound that it took Kaito a moment to realize was a laugh. “Then we did the wrong thing together. It’s all in the past now, Rio. Let’s look to the future together.”

It may have been cliché, at least to Kaito, but Rio nodded before pulling out of Kotori’s arms and wrapping herself in her brother’s. Kaito couldn’t see Ryoga’s face, but by the way Kotori looked at him, Kaito knew Ryoga was trying to hide the fact that he didn’t really believe what he was saying.


	34. Trust

It was a small ship, a cargo ship, Chris explained, unmarked because of the threat of assassination. Ships bearing the crest of the royal family would be targets for river bandits and murderers looking for a hefty ransom. Not to mention the fact that Alasco was on the ship as well, and it would be dangerous for him to pass through these waters when Durbe and Ilya finished with their plans for the subjugation of Heartland Kingdom. People would mutiny. People would rise up against the Barians, just as they had in Arclight, just as they had in Astral. Not that Akari knew what had happened to her kingdom after it fell. She had been in a dark cell in Arclight. Her stomach clenched when she thought of what might have become of her former friends while she was trapped there.

_Wherever you are, I hope you’re okay, Yuma. I hope you’re safe._

The rocking of the ship churned Akari’s stomach. She had never been on a ship before. She didn’t like it in the slightest, and the only reprieve was to empty her stomach over the side.

“It takes some getting used to.”

Chris leaned on the side of the ship next to her and looked out across the river. The ship was moving fairly quickly, and though Akari didn’t claim to know much about weather patterns, she found it strange that they had a tailwind heading west.

“It’s an unusual storm,” Chris muttered. “It usually moves east, but this one is moving southwest.”

“Maybe the gods are pissed at Heartland for not fighting back,” Akari grunted.

He laughed quietly. “I’m sure.”

Akari pulled herself to a standing position. “Were you ever planning on telling me that your brothers are responsible for what happened to Yuma?”

Chris clenched the railing and let out a slow breath. “I didn’t know until Vector brought them to Arclight. I didn’t even know Prince Astral was still alive. And besides.” He turned to her. “To me, Yuma Tsukumo was an upstart. He was allied with dangerous people. This is what the Barians told me.”

“And yet you believed them.”

“I had no reason to believe otherwise.”

Akari slumped back over the railing and rubbed her forearm. There was still a small mark there from the blood oath Chris had forced her to take. “But now you have a reason to believe otherwise. And you’re still going along with it.”

“No.” Chris closed his eyes, and for a moment, the only sound was the rushing waters and gentle whooshing of the wind.  “Your brother  _has_  allied himself with dangerous people. Don’t argue,” he added, correctly interpreting her noise of irritation. “His new friends caused property destruction and almost murdered a Barian officer. It’s very likely they were aiming to kill Lord Durbe. In fact, I’d stake my titles on it.”

She didn’t see where that was possibly a bad thing. “They’re fighting back. The Barians invaded their homeland.”  _My homeland._

“Not all of them,” Chris murmured, and it was so quiet she was sure he was talking to himself.

She opened her mouth to ask him to elaborate but he let out a low breath and turned back to her.

“I have to tell you something.” His eyes took on an intensity that she hadn’t seen since their wedding ceremony – when he had whispered into her ear that if she resisted it would only put her brother and grandmother in greater danger. “I think you deserve to know.”

“Deserve to know what?”

Chris cast a quick glance toward the other side of the ship, where Alasco sat on a pile of cushion while three servants – two women, one man – knelt around him. Barian servants, no doubt. Akari couldn’t imagine a Barian lord smiling so gently, almost  _fondly,_ at any human servants. Apparently satisfied that Alasco was occupied, Chris licked his lips. “Why I married you.”

It had been, she thought at first, a gesture of forgiveness and mercy. But the more she learned about Chris Arclight and the web of politics he and his family were tangled up in, the more she had come to believe that he had a political motive that went far beyond what he’d claimed. “Fine.” She crossed her arms, but quickly uncrossed them as she realized that she needed to hold onto something for balance, and grabbed the side of the ship again.

He rubbed his shoulder with one hand and narrowed his eyes at the water lapping at the sides of the ship. “I was mixed up with someone.”

She didn’t see what that had to do with her. “What, do you owe someone a debt?”

He frowned. “No, I don’t- no.” He glanced over at Alasco again. “I had a lover.”

_Oh._

That certainly changed things. Members of the royal family were prohibited from entering into any kind of intimate relationship before marriage as a way to prevent children being born outside the proper succession. Akari had learned this in her short time in the palace. But if Chris was this worried about it, then surely-

“You didn’t have a child with someone, did you?”

He snorted. “No.”

“You sound so sure.”

“Trust me on this.”

The pieces were starting to fit together now. He sounded adamant that there was no way his lover could have borne him a child. Even supposedly infertile women sometimes had children. Her own mother was an example of that; she had tried and prayed for a second child for six years before she miraculously had Yuma. “A man?”

Chris turned away and leaned over the side of the ship.

“Gods, what cruel fate have I landed myself in,” Akari muttered. “How long?”

“A month before the Dragoon genocide.”

Ten years.  _Ten years_ and Christopher Arclight had been sleeping with another man. One time, she could understand. Maybe two, or even three. But for ten years?

“The first time… was an accident. Neither of us intended for it to go as far as it did. But then, there was this… I don’t know how to explain it. Thrill. Whenever we met up, we would sneak off and… well.”

Akari rubbed her eyes. “Did you ever stop to think that someone might catch you?”

“And here we are,” Chris said wryly. “Have you figured it out yet? You seem good at deductive reasoning.”

Someone found out, then. Or, more likely, someone was getting too close to the truth, and Chris needed an out. Akari just so happened to be it. “You used me, you married me, to make sure no one found out about your affair.” She didn’t love Chris. She didn’t even  _like_ him most of the time. But the thought that she had been forced to marry him so that he could cover up his own stupid choices, the thought that she had been forced into pledging an oath of loyalty to a kingdom that she had no loyalty  _to_ made her angrier than she could remember being in her entire life.

But at the same time, she found it easy to keep her outward emotions calm.

Chris fiddled with the thin golden band on his finger. “I promised you I would do what I could to make you more comfortable with this.”

“I’m not sure how you think that I can feel any comfort at all in this entire mess,” Akari said icily. “You’re going to get away with your mistakes and I’m going to pay the price for it.”

“It’s not all that bad, you know.” He pulled the ring off and gazed at it. “You’ll be queen someday.”

“What if I don’t  _want_ to be queen?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he placed the ring back on his finger and straightened up again. “I know you hate me, but if it eases your mind even a little, I instructed Mihael and Thomas to return your brother’s sword to him.”

A splinter dug into her finger as she gripped the side of the ship. “You know where he is?”

“No. But Durbe is being secretive about something and sent his generals off to investigate. Any time Durbe has a secret, it’s usually something important.”

He turned to leave, perhaps to go back to their cramped bedroom and the too-small bed that Akari was expected to share with her husband (she swore to herself that she’d sleep on the deck if she had to) but she grabbed him by the sleeve.

“Chris.”

“What?”

“Do you miss him?”

Chris’s shoulders slumped and he frowned at the deck. “He’s… changed. We both want the same thing, but… he’s going about it the wrong way.” From the way his eyes tightened and his front teeth latched onto his lip, she knew that Chris had loved his consort. Ten years was a long time to be with someone.

 _Maybe it’s_ you _who’s on the wrong path._ “Do you know how to fight?”

He lifted an eyebrow at the change in conversation. “Fight?”

“Yeah, with swords.”

She saw the slight change in his eyes, from confused to surprised, and finally a tiny smile appeared. “Yes. I am… decent.”

 _Decent_  was an understatement; she’d heard that he was among the best in the kingdom. He’d even mentored the crown prince of the Tenjo Kingdom. “Teach me.”

The smile twisted skeptically. “Have you ever held a sword, Akari?”

Of course she had. Her father had been extraordinary, and taught her and Yuma both. Unlike Yuma, however, she grew bored with it and quit after the basics, believing there to be no point in learning the sword in her profession as a bookbinder. “I know some. I want to know more.”

He nodded slowly, half to himself, before reaching out and gripping her by the shoulders. “You should start with something very basic, then.” She scowled as he led her out to the center of the ship, facing the bow. He moved a hand to her waist.

“What are you doing?”

“Spread your legs.”

“ _What_?”

“You have terrible balance on a moving ship. If you can master balance on the water, you’ll master balance on the land.”

Akari glanced over at Alasco and his servants, who were all staring at them with laughter on their faces. She flushed but begrudgingly shifted her stance.

“Ignore them,” he whispered, walking behind her. He placed a hand on her shoulder and pointed. “Look straight ahead. See the way the ship cuts through the water.”

It made her queasy to think about, but she nodded.

“Good. Watch it. Focus on what’s in front of you and ignore what’s to the side. Give yourself the illusion that you’re not moving.”

That was easier said than done. In her peripheral, she could still see the trees going by, could still feel the ship move.

But it felt slower, somehow.

“Move with the ship, not against it, and you won’t feel like it’s moving at all.” He finally released her shoulder. “It works for me, anyway.”

“Oh, well as long as it works for  _you._ ”

He laughed softly. “I’ll take the first rest. When you’re too tired to stand, you can have the bed.” She heard him give a curt greeting to Alasco as he passed on his way below deck.

Christopher Arclight was an ass sometimes.

—-

When Alit had first met Durbe, Durbe was a year above him in the military. He was bookish and scrawny and  _small_ ; though he was slightly taller than Alit, he never seemed  _bigger_ for it, and many of their peers mockingly referred to Durbe as  _The Little Barian._  It never seemed to bother Durbe as much as it bothered Durbe’s only friend, a permanently sullen and disrespectful Barian named Mizael; Durbe would always whisper to Mizael to let it go, and Mizael would always argue. In the end, Mizael would settle for casting glares at anyone who dared mock Durbe. In addition to his asymmetrical face and rumored abandonment by his own parents, which were juicy enough subjects among the recruits on their own, Mizael had a strange loyalty to Durbe. This, and the fact that Mizael openly flaunted authority but always caved when Durbe asked him to do something was the talk of their class, and Alit occasionally heard people jokingly speculating when they would do the soul transfer.

That, too, always bothered Mizael.

Alit thought Durbe was a strange kid and questioned why he was in the army when he was clearly the product of poverty. So was he, but at least in the mining towns at the base of the mountains there was ample supply of Baria Crystal. Durbe looked as though he had never touched one in his life when Alit first saw him.

Despite Durbe’s physical limitations, Alit grew to respect him. He avoided conflict whenever possible, accepted blame when it wasn’t his to accept, and was a sharp strategist. Once, when Alit and his friend Gilag found Durbe sitting alone at break with a book, it had seemed the perfect opportunity to pick on him. Gilag stole the book, Alit made fun of it – “ _The Third Reign of Arclight,_  oh it sounds  _riveting_ ” – and asked Durbe why he was there.

Alit never forgot his answer.

_“The Barian Kingdom is only as great as those who lead it.”_

The implication was clear and borderline treason. But Alit knew that behind his undernourished body and weak powers there was a brilliant leader.

After Alit and Gilag graduated from their training, they were stationed at the same outpost on the northern border as Mizael and Durbe. Gilag had resented it; that was where they sent troublemakers and weak Barians.

But Durbe had big plans for the future, and it ended up being both the greatest honor and the biggest punishment to be sent to that outpost.

Alit traced his fingers over his forearm. The cut that Durbe had made there had long since healed, but Alit never forgot it. “Gilag, what do you think we’re doing here?”

“Durbe asked us to look into whatever it was he saw out here,” Gilag grunted. He rubbed at his nose. “Why it had to be at the crack of dawn, though…”

They had been wandering the forest for nearly an hour. What they were supposed to be looking for, they couldn’t find.  _It was a blinding light,_  Durbe explained, but he failed to explain why he skipped the wedding reception with Mizael and ended up in the only part of the palace facing west – the bed chambers.  _It could have been Prince Astral._

But why would Astral risk this a second time?

Alit stopped and Gilag followed suit. “He seemed worried.”

“He’s always worried.” Gilag crossed his arms and shrugged. “After what happened to Mizael, I think that’s understandable.”

Alit snorted and rolled his eyes. “If Durbe thinks we’re going to go down as quickly as that scrawny archer, I’m going to have to feel insulted.”

Gilag laughed. “I’m gonna tell  _Miza_  you said that.”

“Go ahead,” Alit said with a grin, giving Gilag a punch on the arm. “Remember that time I beat the crap out of him in training? I can take him.”

They headed off again, this time a little to the north. Durbe wanted them to check back in that evening so he could fill them in on the events at Heartland, but there was plenty of time to head to the Arena. After all, there was no better place to gather information than the black market.

—-

It was nearly midmorning and Astral had still not woken. They couldn’t stay where they were; it was dangerous for Yuma and even more so for Astral should anyone come through the forest. During the earliest hours of the morning, Yuma had found a higher concentration of cypress trees, which he knew grew only in a particularly swampy part of the Wyvern Forest in Arclight, a few miles from an overflow in the river.

He didn’t understand how or why they’d ended up here, but Astral’s unconsciousness certainly had something to do with it. If they had been transported from the Sargasso Waste all the way back to Arclight, seemingly instantaneously… It reminded him of the Barian portals. And there  _had_ been a flash of light; Shingetsu remembered it even if Yuma hadn’t.

They could figure that out later. For now, they had to make it to the Dragoon Shrine. He considered praying that none of his friends had been transported to Baria or any village or city. They would surely not survive there. But it was too late to pray now, even if he had any faith that the gods would do anything other than insist that things followed a predetermined course.

Shingetsu wasn’t helping matters much, either. He wouldn’t touch Astral (“I’m not worthy of the honor of touching the rightful king of the Astral Kingdom”) and he complained at length. Yuma understood; Shingetsu hadn’t wanted to travel with them in the first place and only did because Ryoga had been worried that he would let slip that he encountered the Barians’ most sought-after fugitives in the Sargasso Waste. But when Yuma suggested that they were a mere ten miles from the nearest port city and that Shingetsu was free to go as long as he swore not to tell anyone anything, Shingetsu refused.

“I’m interested in you, Yuma,” he explained, and though Ryoga would be furious that Yuma would even consider allowing Shingetsu to go free at this point, Yuma found that he  _trusted_ Shingetsu. He still didn’t know anything about Shingetsu’s life circumstances or why he chose to be a bard or how he’d ended up deciding to go to the Waste on his own when he was clearly cowardly, but Shingetsu had proven that he didn’t have any ill intent toward Astral when they’d been transported here. He could have killed Astral and made it out to look like it had happened before they’d left the Waste. But he didn’t. He stayed by Astral’s side and waited for Yuma, because he believed Yuma would come to their aid.

He may have grated Yuma’s nerves at times but Yuma believed that he probably did have the best intentions.

“Let’s take a break, Yuma,” Shingetsu offered after a few hours of walking. “I picked some fruits along the way.”

Yuma’s arms were sore from carrying Astral through the woods, so he agreed. He was starving; they had no more of the smoked meat from a couple of nights before. Yuma’s body craved more than fruit, but he took the small, under-ripe apples that Shingetsu offered him and ate them gratefully. They were bitter and hard, but they were better than nothing, and he needed his strength. If he was going to have to carry Astral all the way to the Shrine, he was going to need as much energy as he could get.

“Is he going to be okay?” Shingetsu asked quietly, nodding at Astral’s sleeping form next to Yuma.

“Yeah. When he uses his powers, it sometimes makes him pass out. He’ll be fine.” Yuma wished he was as sure of that as he sounded. Astral usually only slept for an hour or two, and it had been an entire night. As long as he still breathed, Yuma could hope.

“Does he use his powers often? What are they like?” Shingetsu sounded eager, and sat up straighter.

“N-no.” Yuma frowned at Shingetsu’s sudden interest. He was a bard, Yuma reminded himself. It was only natural he’d be curious to know about the powers of the Astral World. “I’ve only seen him use them five times. This is the third time since… since the kingdom fell to the Barians.”

Shingetsu’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Yuma. I’m sure you lost friends that day.”

Yuma closed his eyes. Impatience, terror, helplessness. Fear for his kingdom, fear for his friends, fear for the family he hadn’t seen in two years. It was all so vivid, remembering how he stood in that library, waiting for Ryoga to come back. Wondering if he ever would. “It hurts to think about it. I’m sorry, Shingetsu.”

“I understand.” Shingetsu picked at the seeds in the apple core he was holding. “Do you have family, Yuma?”

What had become of Akari and Gran since Yuma had left Arclight? Akari had assured him that she was safe, but what about now? “My parents died a few years ago. I used to live with my grandmother and sister before I joined the Guard. Akari didn’t want me to but…” Shingetsu would think him insane if he explained that his father had implored him to uncover the secrets of the Barian lords. “I hadn’t talked to her in all that time. I hope the Barians haven’t done anything to her.” His voice cracked by the time he was finished.

A flicker of familiarity crossed Shingetsu’s eyes at Akari’s name. “Akari? Akari Tsukumo? That name sounds familiar.”

Yuma smiled humorlessly. “She was a bookbinder from a village in the Astral Kingdom. She won’t be familiar, Shingetsu.”

“No, I’m sure of it.” Shingetsu frowned as he rummaged around in his satchel, pulling out a small wooden instrument of some sort, a stack of parchment bound with what looked like yucca, and a number of writing utensils. Finally, he pulled out a crumpled leaflet. “Yes, here.”

He handed it to Yuma. Yuma’s stomach lurched; it was an execution notice. He stared at his name for a moment, then at the charges of  _insurrection, attempted murder, and destruction of property_. He was about to ask Shingetsu what this had to do with anything – as well as voice his dissatisfaction that his alleged “attempted murder” of Vector hadn’t come to pass – when he saw the second half of the decree.

_Following the execution by hanging, our beloved Lord Christopher, Eldest Son of Arclight, shall be wed to the Lady Akari Tsukumo of Astral Kingdom. The people of our kingdom are warmly welcomed to witness our Prince’s union._

This was surely a mistake.

“No,” he said, thrusting the paper back at Shingetsu. “That’s not possible. Akari would never consent to that.”

_They’re taking care of us._

“She came to see me the night before. She would have told me.”

“I’m just showing you what I found,” Shingetsu said, eyes wide. “I only meant well.”

“No, no,” Yuma muttered, rubbing his eyes. “It’s not your fault…” Did Ryoga know? He had been there. He’d told Yuma about how they saw the stage where Yuma was to be hanged. “Shingetsu, were you there?”

Shingetsu lowered his eyes and grimaced. “Yes. I was curious, I admit. Please forgive me.”

Yuma shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. What happened? Did they say anything about Akari?”

“Yes, there was a speech by Lord Durbe. He announced that you had… died in your cell, and then Lord Christopher and Lady Akari would be wed.”

“What did he say exactly? If you remember.” Yuma’s heart was racing. Ryoga had told him that Durbe had spoken, but that Anna’s explosion had interrupted Durbe’s speech. Had he lied?

Shingetsu screwed up his eyes in thought. “What he said exactly was that ‘the terrorist Yuma Tsukumo committed suicide in his cell last night. Regretfully, we cannot give you the execution you came for. Instead, we would like to offer the people of Arclight the opportunity to witness the union between your beloved Prince Christopher and, as a gesture of goodwill toward the Astral Kingdom and a show of forgiveness for her brother’s sins, the Lady Akari Tsukumo.’”

It was almost verbatim what Ryoga had told him Durbe had said. Shingetsu had clearly been there. Except Ryoga had told him that the explosion interrupted Durbe before he mentioned the marriage.

“Why would he lie to me?” Yuma whispered.

Shingetsu gingerly placed his hand on Yuma’s shoulder. “Don’t let it bother you, Yuma. I’m sure he meant well, too. Maybe he didn’t want to upset you.”

“Upset me?” Yuma turned his head. “He didn’t think it was prudent to tell me that my sister was forced to marry one of the Barians’ puppet rulers?” He covered his face with his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. “Gods. I know I’m not in the best state of mind right now, but I think I deserved to know that.” He himself had tried to keep from Astral from knowing the fate that befell the king and queen, but Ryoga had insisted.  _He needs to know now so he can move on quickly._  Did he not think Yuma could handle it?

“I’m sorry.” Shingetsu hesitated a moment before sliding his hand down Yuma’s arm and gently holding his wrist. “ _I_  seem to have upset you and I’m sorry.” Yuma couldn’t muster the energy to pull his hand away.

It was comforting, in a way, to know that at least he had someone he could trust in that moment. 


	35. The Broken Seal

When Ilya arrived at the Heartland palace, Durbe and Mizael were already there in their human forms, deep in conversation. Mizael had tied his hair back in a tight braid, threaded with gold ribbon that matched the embroidery on his red robes; Durbe wore the same white suit he usually wore to diplomatic functions. They didn’t seem to be arguing, for a wonder. Mizael gazed off to the side, nodding or shaking his head as Durbe ticked off a list of questions on his fingers, and when Durbe was finished, he smiled. Neither seemed to notice Ilya approaching.

“Probably tonight, then,” he was saying in response to one of Mizael’s questions. “You aren’t to sleep that way, though, in case it relapses. And you’ll continue drinking it until you’re one hundred percent back to normal.”

Mizael sighed and crossed his arms. “Haven’t I had enough?”

“Good morning,” Ilya said loudly, and Mizael tensed. If Durbe was startled, he hid it well. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Not long at all.” Durbe’s fingers fiddled with a button on his coat. “I would just like to get this over with.”

So did Ilya, though the other lords wanted it to be a slower process.  _Don’t build up animosity,_ Polara had warned, and Koche agreed.  _Don’t announce that you’re taking over. List Lord Heartland’s crimes, but don’t be overly accusatory._ Durbe was convinced that Heartland hired assassins to kill him. He was certain Heartland, backed in a corner and desperate, would stop at nothing to remain in power. “Where is he?”

Durbe’s lips tightened. “On his way, so his lieutenant claims.”

“Preparing a discreet way to kill us, more likely,” Mizael muttered, and Durbe gave him a strained side-glance.

“Well, we can hardly accuse him of something like that without evidence,” Ilya said, shifting her parasol. Purple, today, and smooth silk inlaid with pearls instead of lace. It was a more powerful color, more authoritative than pink. She wanted to remind Heartland who the real rulers were. “But General, I am pleased to see you up and walking about. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes,” he said stiffly. At a lifted eyebrow from Durbe, he closed his eyes and sighed. “Yes, Lord Ilya.”

He still spoke in a clipped voice, but his near-death experience seemed to have humbled him somewhat. More likely Durbe had warned him expressly that one slip would ruin the both of them. They needn’t worry too much. Ilya had no plans to out them, not when she benefitted so much from Durbe’s schemes.  “Lovely. Do you have the papers ready, Durbe?”

He patted his coat pocket. “Of course.”

“Papers?”

Lord Heartland had finally arrived, dressed in clashing pastel colors that made Ilya cringe. They had shown up unannounced, so she couldn’t blame him entirely for being in more casual clothing, but she remembered the last time she had seen him in those colors. He had dragged her and Pherka to one of his stadium shows, where she had been forced to watch the most revolting “sporting” event she had ever seen; there was a creature – one of the last of a clan of wild woods people, so Heartland claimed – that was more like a wolf than a human, and it had literally ripped its opponents’ throats out. It made her sick, then, and she swore if she ever saw that  _thing_  again, she’d put it out of its misery herself.

She forced a smile. “Of course, Lord Heartland.” She curtsied, and her companions bowed stiffly. “We have a number of serious issues to discuss with you today.”

“Serious issues, you say?” Heartland glanced at Durbe, who glared back. “Hm, well, it must be serious for them to send two lords.” He pulled off his absurd cylindrical hat and twirled it in his hands. “I was going to go to an event this morning, so would you like to-”

“No,” Durbe said sharply before Ilya even opened her mouth. “I will have no part in your barbarous  _sporting events_.”

Heartland pressed his lips together as he considered Durbe. Ilya counted to fifteen before Heartland finally responded. “Very well. I’ve had the servants throw together a quick breakfast, if I may have that honor.”

Durbe nodded and gestured for Heartland to lead the way. Mizael followed, hand on his sword hilt, but Ilya caught his arm.

“General Mizael,” she said softly, “would you escort me?”

She had never stood this close to him before, and had never realized just how _tall_  he was compared to her; the top of her head barely reached his chest. From this angle, she could see that the red marks on his face trailed down his neck and under his collar. She’d always wondered about them. Tattoos? Or something else?

Mizael shrugged and held out his arm, which she linked with her own. He was tense.

“You can relax, General,” Ilya murmured to him as they walked, Durbe glancing back once before returning his attention to Heartland. “He can try whatever he’d like, but at the end of the day, he loses. Remember that.”

He clenched his hand. “He tried to murder a lord.”

“He failed, thanks to you.”

Mizael snorted but didn’t say anything. He kept his gaze fixed on Durbe and Heartland as they walked through the ludicrously adorned marble entrance hall. The hideous heart-shaped mosaic that spanned the entire hall was the same as Ilya remembered it, but Heartland seemed to be indecisive when it came to picking colors for everything else. Tapestries in various shades of blues, pinks, purples, and greens were draped along the walls, and the rugs on the sweeping staircase were now a putrid shade of orange. The whole layout reminded Ilya too much of the travelling circuses and sideshows she had been part of as a child. The thought made her sick.

Durbe and Heartland were still conversing as they ascended the staircase to the dining chamber, so Ilya turned her attention away from a brightly dyed wolf pelt on the wall and back to Mizael. “General, what do those markings on your face symbolize?”

He tensed again. Durbe glanced back, but at a slight shake of Mizael’s head, resumed his conversation with Heartland. Mizael touched the markings with his free hand; his jaw clenched. If he was stalling, that was fine. She would stop him in the hall before they entered the dining hall for breakfast and wait for him to tell her.

Fortunately, his shoulders slacked and he sighed. Proud Mizael always walked with his shoulders back and chin up, eyes striking through everything they came across. But now he looked so  _sad_ , with his eyes staring unseeingly at the carpet in front of them and his chin down.  

“A mark of my status,” he mumbled, and Ilya remembered his hearing, where he admitted that his parents had rejected him because of his physical abnormality. “When the military conscripted me, they wanted everyone to know what I was.” He pulled his shoulders back and lifted his head again. “A reminder to  _everyone_ , human and Barian, what I was.”

 _How cruel_. Ilya couldn’t help but feel bad for him. It had certainly stirred up a lot of debate when Durbe announced that Mizael was to be his personal bodyguard. An incomplete Barian meant that his parents had backed out of his creation before the ritual was finished. Incomplete in body  _and_ soul. A broken Barian. She had heard the names the others called him back then, and even still on occasions. He was a freak, a monster, unwanted, unloved, disgusting.

She had heard those things about herself once, a long time ago.

Heartland pushed open a door. “After you.”

Durbe swept past without looking at him, and Mizael released Ilya’s arm, allowing her to enter first. It was a largely undecorated room, mercifully free from Heartland’s pastel nightmares, and had spacious windows that overlooked the nearby river. She settled in the seat at the head of the table  and folded her parasol.

If Heartland was disgusted by her presence before, he was doubly so now.

He sat across from Durbe and Mizael and picked up his wine glass. A servant hurried to fill it. “What can I do for you?”

Durbe eyed the wine being poured into his glass with narrowed eyes. “Please send your servants out of the room. This is a private matter.” He pointed at the young man standing by the window. “Lieutenant Okudaira, you may stay.”

Heartland’s mouth thinned but he ushered them away, pale-faced Okudaira remaining where he was. When the door closed, Durbe reached into his coat and pulled out a stack of papers and a pair of glasses, which he put on right away.

“We have some serious accusations to level at you, Lord Heartland,” Durbe said, setting a piece of paper on the table between them. “Possibly the most serious being that you hired assassins to murder me.”

Halfway through a sip of wine, Heartland spat it back into his goblet. “On what grounds-”

“If you’ll read the paper, it will be made clear,” Durbe said, shuffling through his papers. Heartland snatched it from the table. “Furthermore, the Seven Barian Lords have come to the conclusion that your… games… not only violate what we assume is supposed to be basic human decency but also kingdom treaties dealing with kidnapping.”

“ _Kidnapping_?” Heartland abandoned the first paper. “Every individual in my stadium is a criminal or unemployed member of  _my_ kingdom.”

“A long time ago, there was a clan of wild people who lived in the mountains on the Astral-Heartland border,” Durbe went on, undeterred. “They were, according to no fewer than four peace treaties” – he tossed a few more papers on the table – “within the boundaries of the Astral Kingdom when you _invaded_ and either murdered or kidnapped them.” He looked up. “We know this because of information we gained from possibly the only living clan member who hasn’t been driven insane from mistreatment.”

Ilya couldn’t help but admire the complete apathy on Durbe’s face as he tossed paper after paper at Heartland, as he leveled accusation after accusation, before finally settling back in the chair after calling Heartland out for not adhering to proper customs taxes. Heartland’s face went from pale to red to almost purple with each word Durbe spoke and by the end of it, his hands shook so much Ilya was sure he was going to rip the paper in his hands in half.

“This is  _my_ kingdom and I can do what I please with it,” Heartland hissed. “I have built the most economically sound kingdom on this continent.”

“In part through illegal acts, Lord Heartland,” Ilya piped up, picking up her goblet. “I would be careful not to boast too much about that.”

She was about to take a sip when Durbe’s hand pulled it away from her. Some spilled out onto her dress and she shot him a scowl as he slammed it back on the table.

“Don’t drink that,” Durbe murmured, fumbling in his coat pocket.

“Why?” She didn’t bother hiding the irritation in her voice as she dabbed at the wine on her dress.

He pulled out a small vial and dipped the contents into her goblet. It sizzled and smoked; when Ilya glanced in it, the wine had turned into a fine brown powder.

“Poison,” Durbe said calmly.

Heartland pushed his chair back and made to stand, but Ilya was already on her feet and shoved him back into the chair. How dare he; how  _dare_  this filthy monster of a human do something like this?

“Ilya,” Durbe said, and for the first time, his voice carried a note of alarm. It took her a moment to realize that the unlit candles on the chandelier were now blazing, as were the candles on the table. They were burning much brighter than was normal, and even from a few feet away, she could feel the heat from them.

She forced herself to take calming breaths. She’d lost control. She hadn’t lost control like this in years.

The hatred and fear in Heartland’s eyes was more pronounced than ever. “A witch,” he spat.

Despite herself, she gave a little laugh, lower-pitched than usual. “Nobody’s dared call me a witch in fifteen years, Lord Heartland.” She leaned close. “Back then, you could have. Everyone did.” She adopted a showman’s voice. “’Come one, come all, come see the Barian Witch! But don’t get too close or she’ll burn you to cinders, the same way she did to her own parents.’”

Heartland’s breathing was more rapid. “Y-you get away from me, you witch, you  _monster,_ or I will see you burn the way you deserve to be burned.”

“Lord Ilya.” Mizael, this time, and a quick glance to the side showed her that he was halfway to his feet before Durbe grabbed his hand and pulled him back in his chair.

She didn’t care. “You can call me a witch again,” Ilya said softly in Heartland’s ear, “but I think you should consider the consequences.”

Heartland squirmed in his chair, trying to move as far back from her as he could. It was comical; he wasn’t even trying to mask his disgust now. “What are you going to do, hex me?”

She had to applaud him for his bravado. “ _Hex_  you?” She laughed. What a vile, filthy, insulting man. “My dear sir, do you take me for some sort of backcountry savage? No, no.” She leaned on the table conversationally. “What’s that phrase you use with all of your charming little games?” She pursed her lips in mock thought. “Ah yes,  _heart burning_!”

“Lord Ilya,” Durbe said warningly, but she waved him off and leaned next to Heartland again. He was plenty scared now; she could see it in his shifty eyes and by the way his hands tightened on the armrest furthest from her.

“What if I were to change that little catchphrase,  _Mr._ Heartland?”

He clenched his teeth. “How dare you speak down to me-”

“I rather like the sound of…  _Heartland burning_ , don’t you?” She gave him a tight-lipped smile.

The color drained from his face. “You would burn my city?”

Ilya placed a hand to her chest and feigned insult. “What? Burn as lovely a city as this? No,  _no_ , Mr. Heartland, that would be a  _waste_. No, I was talking about  _you._ ” She leaned down and placed her lips to his ears. He shuddered and tried to pull away, but she grabbed his chin and pulled him back. “You burn witches in this city, but do you burn cowardly, backstabbing traitors?”

He whimpered. Good.

“Ilya,” Durbe said again, louder.

“Quiet, Durbe.” Ilya glanced over at him. Mizael was tightlipped, staring at her with slightly widened eyes, and now Durbe was half-standing. “He hired assassins to murder you. He almost killed your general. He tried to poison us again, and he’s threatened to burn me at the stake. He deserves to reap exactly what he has sowed.” Surely Durbe didn’t feel as though they should actually  _spare_ this monster.

“I know.” Durbe pushed himself to a full standing position. “It is, regrettably, not our decision what fate will befall him. We will take him back to Baria for trial for his crimes.”

“To Baria?” Heartland’s voice was a strange mix of indignation and dread. “I will never receive a fair trial there.”

“Who said anything about a  _fair_  trial?” Durbe said tonelessly. “General Mizael, see to it that Mr. Heartland is placed on the nearest ship back to Arclight. We’ll transport him overland to Baria from there.”

Mizael inclined his head at Durbe’s retreating back. When the door closed behind him, Ilya smiled again. “Well, General, would you object if some mysterious mishap befell our beloved former king?” She squeezed Heartland’s face the way a grandmother would squeeze a small child’s.

“I do as Durbe says,” Mizael said in the same toneless voice that plagued Durbe’s speech. He walked around the table. “I do not wish to countermand him.”

She sighed. “Ever faithful to your lord, are you, Mizael?”

Mizael grabbed Heartland’s arm and ignored the vile names Heartland hissed at him. “I am ever faithful to the Barian Empire, Lord Ilya.”

 _Good answer_ , she mused, watching him drag Heartland to his feet and bind his wrists. The pale-faced lieutenant stood rigidly nearby, watching the scene in front of him with wide, watery eyes. She couldn’t blame him for Heartland’s ineptitude. He was, after all, only following Heartland’s orders.

“Lieutenant Okudaira,” she said in what she thought was a soothing voice. “Come here, would you?”

He turned to her and swallowed. “Y-yes, my… my…”

She held out a hand. “No need to be frightened of me, Lieutenant. Or may I call you Fuya? It’s so much easier to say.”

He walked with shaking steps until he reached her side. “If… if you would like…”

“Lovely.” She wrapped her arm around his shoulders. Predictably, he tensed up, but at least he was smart enough not to shy away. “You know how things are done around here, so I would like you to be  _my_ lieutenant.”

“Don’t get dragged into that witch’s web, Fuya!” Heartland said in a strangled voice before Mizael rolled his eyes and shoved a piece of cloth in Heartland’s mouth. The former king continued to yell incoherently as Mizael shoved him out the door. Mizael would have to be careful to find a back way to the shipyard unless he was going to attract every passerby in the city with Heartland’s muffled slurs and insults.

Fuya made a quiet noise of longing as the door slammed behind Mizael. Ilya pulled him closer. He was a handsome boy. Well-mannered, polite, soft-spoken. He would make a wonderful personal guard. “No need to worry, Fuya,” she said, patting his cheek. He flinched. It was going to take some time to get him to warm up to her. That was fine. “The merchants’ council distributes edicts in this kingdom, correct?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Excellent.” She picked up the final piece of paper. Durbe’s proclamation. How kind of him to allow her the honor of ruling over this kingdom. The first thing to go would be Heartland’s disgusting gladiatorial death matches. They simply weren’t  _humane_. “Do you know the best way to contact them?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Here.” She scribbled a note on the bottom of the paper and rolled it up. Heartland’s stamp sat next to a ball of wax on the table. She pulled her own out of a fold in her dress. “Take this to the council, and inform them that I would like a meeting with them.”

“A meeting?” Fuya tilted his head. “They never meet directly with the king.”

She lit a small flame in her palm and warmed the stamp over it. Fuya took a small step back. “Things are going to be different in this kingdom, Fuya.” She pressed the Barian crest into the wax and sealed the declaration. “Please inform the Guard to change the banners. As of today, Heartland is part of the Barian Empire.”

—-

Rio was still shaken by her dream – her nightmare, her vision, whatever it was – so Ryoga and Kaito offered to find some food for breakfast. None of them had eaten much since the escape from Arclight, in part because there was nothing  _to_ eat in the Waste. They had run out of smoked rabbit and dried fruits that Cathy had collected along the way. Rio didn’t know the girl well at all, but Kotori seemed convinced that she was generally good at heart if not very odd.

Kotori held her by the hand with both of her own, the same way she had when they had first met. Rio, Mara, and Ryoga had stumbled onto palace grounds in the dead of night ten years ago, covered in scrapes and burns and blood. Most of the blood wasn’t their own. Kotori had been a trainee Healer then, not even fourteen years old, but she had cleaned Rio’s injuries with the professionalism of a fully trained one, and offered her sympathies. When Rio was taken from her brother and friend, their injuries being more severe, Kotori had sat by Rio’s bedside for the entire night, holding her hand through Rio’s tears and memories.

Time had only changed Kotori Mizuki for the better, and Rio would be forever grateful for Kotori’s friendship.

“I’m sorry,” Rio said quietly, offering Kotori a gentle smile. “I wish I didn’t have to burden you with my tears again.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Kotori gave her hand a tight squeeze. “This is hard for you. You’re the strongest woman I know. I can’t imagine being back after…” She trailed off.

Rio merely nodded. She had nothing more to say about it; Kotori knew her well enough not to ask.

If fate had brought them here, maybe there was something they had to find, to discover for themselves. One question had plagued her and her brother for a decade. The village was supposed to be protected against the Barians. There were four wards that protected the village, and only the elders knew where they were. Did one fail, somehow?

Rio stood, and Kotori rose with her. The elders may have been the only ones who knew where all four wards were, but Rio suspected she knew the approximate location of one of them. She and Mara had been chastised by the elders for digging in one particular part of the forest – they had been ten and twelve, respectively, and searching for rubies – but even though they had dug nothing up before they were caught at it, the elders seemed concerned. It made sense to Rio that there had been something there.

It was a long shot, and she still had no idea where the other three were, but given the culture’s obsession with circles, she had a feeling if she found one, she could map out the others.

“Where are we going?” Kotori asked, glancing back at the dying fire. “They’ll be upset that we wandered off.”

“They’ll get over it.” It wasn’t too far from here, the part of the village where Rio and Ryoga had grown up, and she remembered vividly where she and Mara had been digging. “If they get back first, they can wait on us.”

Ten years and a destructive fire had changed the vegetation, but Rio’s feet led her along now-unseen paths that she had walked on every day. She swallowed back a lump in her throat when they passed through a nearby clearing where their mother’s best friend had lived.

“She made good pumpkin bread,” Rio whispered, and Kotori’s hand gripped hers again. She hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

They finally reached a sparse part of the forest, visually indistinguishable from the rest of their path. But Rio could  _feel_ it, feel something that she had never felt while living in this village, and she knew she was in the right place.

She knelt where the feeling was strongest, grabbed a sturdy-looking stick and began digging at the ground. Kotori knelt next to her, despite her white dress, and smiled at Rio.

“Whatever you’re looking for, we can find faster this way,” she said, and Rio smiled back.

They dug into the earth for an hour, judging by the shifting sunlight, and they had made a hole about three feet deep before Kotori brushed some dirt from a small tablet and grabbed Rio’s arm.

Rio knew before touching it what it was, and she knew before taking it from Kotori’s hands that she was right. It was heavy and made of a sturdy mineral – quartz, from the look of it – with three faded swirls etched into it. The Dragoon symbol for the Astral World.

And it was cracked right down the middle.

They knelt together in the hole for several long minutes, Rio’s mind swimming with questions. Who had done this? Why? No one was allowed in the village boundaries without permission from the elders. This had taken a long time, and it was a Dragoon who did it.

But what kind of Dragoon would betray their entire people like this?

“We should get back,” she whispered finally, standing up. “They’ll wonder where we are.”

She helped Kotori out of the hole and they headed back together, leaving the tablet behind.

Sure enough, Ryoga and Kaito were waiting for them when they entered the clearing. Kaito was prodding the fire while Ryoga skinned what looked like it might have been a chipmunk.

“Where have you two been?” Ryoga grunted, tossing a chunk of skin aside.

Kotori pointedly looked away. “Looking for something.”

“Looking for what?” Kaito sounded irritated.

Rio sat down near her brother. “Ryoga, you know how this village was warded against the Barians?”

“Of course. Why?”

Kaito was watching her carefully now. She looked down at the chipmunk that Ryoga was now stripping of its meat. It was disgusting, but it didn’t faze her nearly as much as what she had discovered. “Kotori and I found one of the seals. It was broken.”

Ryoga’s knife slipped and he nearly sliced his finger off. “What?” He dropped the knife and the chipmunk onto the dirty forest floor. “How is that possible? Only Dragoons-”

“I think someone in the village did it deliberately,” Rio said quietly. Her voice trembled and she couldn’t stop her leg from bouncing. The words sounded absurd out loud. But they were true, weren’t they? They had to be. “The ward was cracked very deliberately. It wasn’t an accident.”

Ryoga’s entire body was rigid and unmoving, and Rio wasn’t sure if he was even breathing. Kaito leaned over him and picked up the poor creature that was to become their breakfast, placing strips of it on top of stones placed near the fire. Each piece sizzled as it touched the hot stone. “My court librarian said something to me about those pictographs I had you translate.”

“With that damn legend?” Ryoga was still paying attention, then. His gaze snapped toward Kaito. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Kaito finished tossing the meat onto the heating rocks and straightened up. “He figured one of two things about them. One, they were fake.”

“They weren’t,” Ryoga said curtly.

“I  _know_ they weren’t, thank you,” Kaito snapped. “Shut up and let me finish.” Ryoga rolled his eyes and Kaito wiped his hands off on his filthy robes. “The second was that someone in the Dragoon village knew the village was going to be destroyed and so they shared the legend with an outsider.”

“No one would share the clan’s secrets with an  _outsider_.” Ryoga stood. His hands were balled into fists. “And no one would know the village was going to be destroyed and do nothing to stop it.”

Kaito leaned close to Ryoga. His voice was quiet. “No one would destroy the only protection from the Barians either, would they?”

Rio could see the muscles working in her brother’s face. His jaw was clenched, his eyes twitched, and his eyebrows were furrowed so deeply they almost touched. But he tore his eyes from Kaito’s and looked at the ground.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Kaito whispered. He held himself with all the haughty authority of his status, somehow managing to look down on Ryoga despite being ever so slightly shorter.

Ryoga’s mouth moved wordlessly. Finally, he closed his eyes. “Unlike  _you_ , none of my people would have any motivation for betraying their own race.” He opened his eyes again and met Kaito’s piercing stare. “We served the Astral World, not ourselves.”

He turned and strode away without another word, hands still clenched. He didn’t take his lance, so he wouldn’t be going too far, but Rio sighed and went to follow him. Kaito grabbed her arm.

“He needs to understand that people have their own motives for things,” Kaito said in a low voice.

Rio pushed him away. “And  _you_  need to understand our culture. We knew every single member of our clan. Imagine how hard it is to hear someone say that one of those people we knew, someone we loved and  _trusted_  sold us out to the Barians. Just…  _try_.”

She didn’t know how Kaito responded. She didn’t turn around to see.


	36. Master of Manipulation

Leaving Ilya in charge of Heartland Kingdom had been a difficult decision to reach, but Durbe didn’t see another choice. Even if Ilya didn’t  _know_  too much, she still  _suspected_  too much, and in the realm of Barian political gossip, speculation could be even more dangerous than fact. And as far as lords that he trusted to make good use of Heartland’s resources, Ilya topped his list. If she were occupied with restructuring Heartland’s barbaric economic system and putting down the revolts that were inevitable with a change in power, she would care less about what Durbe did elsewhere. That was his hope. Let the other lords decide what to do with Lord Heartland.

Three kingdoms had fallen to the Barian Empire. All Durbe cared about now was Haruto Tenjo.

“I managed to get Heartland out of the palace and onto a grain cargo bound for Arclight unseen,” Mizael said from the doorway, and Durbe looked up from the letter he was working on.

“Good,” Durbe muttered, setting his pen down. The sun was no longer shining through the window. It must be mid-afternoon; he would need a candle soon. “We can have him shipped to Baria when he gets here in a few days.”

“I had to drug him, tie him up, and shove him in a sack to keep him from hurling disgusting insults at me.”

Durbe glanced over at his general, who closed Durbe’s door behind him. His face was tinged with red, his lips pressed together bitterly. From the flash of anger in Mizael’s eyes, Durbe could imagine the nature of the insults. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“It isn’t your fault.” Mizael sat at the edge of Durbe’s bed. He looked down at his hands. “I’m used to humans calling me a monster by now anyway.”

“You shouldn’t have to be.” Durbe joined Mizael at the edge of the bed. It bothered  _him_  to be called a monster, a demon, a freak – but for Mizael, it was so much more. Durbe had grown up impoverished and sickly but he had been _happy_ , or as happy as it was possible to be in a place like Sargasso, but Mizael was different. He didn’t have parents. He didn’t have a community to support him. He was completely alone. Even other Barians called Mizael a monster. The other lords called Mizael a freak. It hurt Durbe to hear those things. He couldn’t imagine what Mizael felt. “Are you… ready?”

Mizael nodded after a moment’s hesitation.

“Okay.” Durbe reached into his coat for the last vial before remembering that he had used it to prove that Heartland was trying to poison them. “Ah… I guess I need to get some more.”

He was so tired, so fatigued, so  _drained_ from doing it, but it was for Mizael.  _Just one more today_ , he told himself, reaching for a knife and pulling the empty vial from his pocket. Mizael took the vial from his hand and set it on the desk.

“Don’t do this anymore, Durbe,” he muttered. “Knowing that you’re doing that to yourself is bad enough, but seeing it is repulsive.”

“Just one more, to make sure I know you’re completely fine,” Durbe whispered.

Mizael gently removed the knife from Durbe’s hand. “Let me, then. I don’t want you to waste any.”

Durbe slumped his shoulders in resignation before holding his hand out. Mizael took it.

“I’m sorry.” Mizael made a small incision in Durbe’s arm – Durbe barely felt the pain anymore – and lifted it to his lips.

It was a surreal experience, having Mizael lick the blood from Durbe’s small cut, but it felt… good. Being this close to Mizael, resting his chin on Mizael’s shoulder while he gripped his hand, feeling Mizael’s lips on his skin-

-he wanted to kiss Mizael again, but that would be a mistake, wouldn’t it? They couldn’t have that. Not until… but they were so  _close_. When Tenjo was theirs, when they had Haruto’s powers at their disposal and Durbe could finally complete his plans…

_Then we can be complete._

After an eternity, Mizael lowered Durbe’s arm and closed his eyes. There was blood on his lips again. “Can I… can you put my soul gem back?”

Durbe pulled his chin from Mizael’s shoulder. “It’s going to hurt.”

“I don’t care. I want to feel it. I… I need to feel it. Imperfect as it is, I need to feel my body.”

Durbe bit his lip. Without another word, he stood, and reached for Mizael’s hand. “You should rest on my bed. You should be comfortable when I put it back.”

For a wonder, Mizael didn’t argue or roll his eyes or frown; he nodded and allowed Durbe to settle him back on the silk pillows as Durbe unlocked the drawer on his side table and pulled out a gem attached to a gold helix. Mizael’s soul gem.

Durbe sat on the bed next to him and placed it on Mizael’s chest. He didn’t want to hurt Mizael, and this process was agonizing. But Mizael trusted him. Durbe could see it in Mizael’s calm gaze, in the way he linked a few of his fingers loosely with Durbe’s.

“On three, then,” Durbe said, voice shaking.

“Don’t drag it out,” Mizael muttered, closing his eyes. “Just do it. Don’t give yourself time to second-guess.”

That was fair enough, and Durbe squeezed his own eyes shut before pressing his palm against the gem.

Mizael’s back arched as he screamed; claws ripped from his soft human fingers, his shoulders broadened and tore at his clothes, his skin crusted like a yellow scab all over his body, and the gem sank into his chest. Worst of all was the transition in his face. His lips melted together, leaving rough skin where his bloody lips were, and the masklike outer layer of his facial skin ripped through the softer flesh beneath. All the while, Mizael screamed, and Durbe could only grip his hand, which was clawing into Durbe’s skin. It was painful, but he couldn’t even complain to himself. Not when Mizael suffered infinitely more.

Eventually, Mizael’s screams gave way to whimpers and quiet sobs, and soon Mizael was able to loosen his grip on Durbe’s hand. He’d drawn blood. Durbe felt more lightheaded than before, but he smiled at Mizael and touched his face. Rough skin, like sandstone, and so unlike Mizael’s smooth human skin, but Durbe didn’t care which body his general was in. He was the same either way.

“How are you feeling?”

Mizael closed his eyes for a moment. “Exhausted.”

Durbe allowed himself a quiet laugh. “I’m sure. Are you hot? Dizzy?” His skin didn’t feel hot. But there was only so much Durbe could detect simply from touching Mizael.

There was a pause as Mizael shifted against the pillows. He gave up and slumped back. “Weak. A little dizzy.”

“I don’t want you falling asleep,” Durbe murmured. “You might slip into something irreversible.”  _You might not wake up again. I still don’t know if the poison is gone._

Mizael crossed his arms. “I need to be useful. I’m tired of being coddled like a… like a child.”

Ever the proud Barian warrior. “I have to go tell the king why there was screaming coming from this hall and not to be alarmed. You stay put and I’ll be back with some research for you to do.” Durbe climbed off the bed. As he walked to the door, Mizael called after him.

“If you don’t want me to fall asleep in my real body, you should consider letting me do something other than research.”

Durbe closed the door behind him, shaking his head in amusement.

—-

While Tetsuo worked on finishing the mage’s daggers, Anna sat cross-legged in the living room with a piece of crumpled paper next to her, pouring powders and liquids into a pot, muttering incoherently and snapping at anyone who spoke too loudly or cleared their throat too frequently. After a while, Droite and Gauche left to explore the area –  _to go to the Arena to buy illegal weapons, more likely_ , Tetsuo thought grimly – and Cathy sat in the corner with a book that she held upside-down. Tired of her exposing herself in the dress she had been wearing, Tetsuo dug out an old pair of trousers and adjusted the waist for her. They were still too big, but she seemed happier in them, and even more so when she took an unfinished knife from the floor and cut them off at the knees. Tetsuo didn’t have the heart to scold her, and simply shook his head as he hammered away at the weapons. He couldn’t figure out how Anna had ended up travelling with an uneducated savage and two murderers, but she was vague about the whole thing. Then again, maybe it was best he didn’t know after all.

He finished the mage’s daggers only a few hours before the hooded figure arrived at the door. It was a short visit; the mage had paid in full up front, so Tetsuo simply handed them over, the mage examined each one and placed them in his belt, they had a brisk conversation –  _have safe travels; I will, I’m heading northeast and the Barians don’t usually go toward those mountains anyway_ – and then he was gone. Tetsuo wasn’t superstitious. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny or any of that. He was a simple man with a comfortable life. But he couldn’t shake an uncomfortable feeling that he hadn’t seen the last of that mage, or any of these people, for that matter.

“Got it,” Anna said as Tetsuo hammered out a hilt. She sounded exuberant. It had taken her about two weeks to come up with this compound last time, and now it had taken her only a few days. That was fine. Tetsuo had spent an ungodly long time hammering the bubbles out of the compound last time. The bigger head start they had now, the better.

She helped him pour the viscous liquid into the mold, where it bubbled upon touching the metal.

“Where did you get the Baria crystal?” Tetsuo asked conversationally as they worked.

“Picked it up somewhere,” she said unhelpfully.

“ _Where_?”

“The village with the dead bears,” Cathy called out from her corner.

This made absolutely no sense to Tetsuo, but Anna winced. What the hell kind of village would be filled with dead bears, and why would Anna not want to talk about-

-no, but Anna had once mentioned a village in the Barian Kingdom that was supposedly the place where an entire village had been poisoned. But surely she wouldn’t do  _that_.

“Did you rob Barian graves?”

She didn’t look at him, but used a tool to smooth out the liquid. “They were just lying there.”

 _Gods_ , what an intolerable woman. “You stole Barian crystal from dead Barians.”

“It’s not like they were using them!”

Tetsuo was about to retort with  _that’s not the point, Anna_  and  _some cultures have very particular customs with their dead_ when the door opened and Gauche hurried in.

“We’ve got to go,” he said calmly.

Anna put her hands on her hips. “We just started with these-”

“There is no time,” Droite said, pushing past Gauche. “There are two Barian generals headed this way.”

Tetsuo’s hands went numb. Had they led the Barians here? Was he getting involved in their treason after all? “Why?”

“They might have seen us,” Gauche muttered, and Cathy alone seemed unfazed. She simply stood up, slipped the book into her bag, and waited by the door with as much patience as a cat that wanted outside.

Tetsuo was anything but calm. His heart hammered against his ribs and he had to clench his worktable to keep his hands steady. “If I get in trouble for you people-”

“You won’t,” Anna muttered, shoving her leftover materials in her bag. “We’ll head to the mountains for a week or so. Should give you enough time to finish.”

They seemed to be missing the inevitable consequences he would have to face for helping them in the first place. “What do I say if they ask where you are?”

Anna paused, halfway out the back door. She shrugged. “Lie.”

—-

A small blacksmith’s shop rested halfway between the mountain roads and the Arena. Many people must pass through this place, Alit reflected, and it seemed as good a place as any to figure out where the assassins had gone. He was sure they were around here somewhere; they’d been bold to come to the Arena. But they weren’t assassins for nothing. He and Gilag had lost track of them a few miles back. Still, it was worth a shot to ask the smithy if he’d seen them. If the assassins were here, and Durbe was right and the assassins had been working with Kaito Tenjo, who had been working with the Kamishiros – what a tangled mess that was – then there was a good probability that the Kamishiros were around here somewhere.

A thickset man in an apron answered the door, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed. “Yes?”

Had the man known that he was being rude to two of the highest-ranking Barian generals, he wouldn’t have an attitude with them. But Alit let it slide; after all, they probably looked like any other two rough human loggers on their way to the Arena. He reached into a pocket of his flared pants and pulled out a crisply folded piece of paper. “Have you seen any of these people?”

The man rolled his eyes as he unfolded it. Alit watched his eyes closely for any sign of recognition, but the man just frowned. “Nope.” He handed it back. “Anything else?”

Gilag peered past the smith into the shop. He scowled. “I feel… Baria crystal. From in there.”

Alit felt it too; it was faint, so probably tiny amounts, or very weak crystal, but it was there. There was definitely a sign of panic in the man’s eyes now as he uncrossed his arms and stood upright.

“What?”

“Are you making something with Baria crystal in it?” Alit said conversationally, crossing his arms. “You know that’s illegal outside of sanctioned smithies, right?”

The man scratched his arm and looked back into his shop. “I don’t ask questions. People bring me their requests, they never tell me anything about themselves – half the time I don’t even get a good look at their faces – and I make them. It’s better  _not_  to ask questions.”

“Mm.” They could have just shoved past the smith into the shop to investigate the illegal Baria crystal weaponry. But there wasn’t really any reason a human would want a Barian weapon. Humans were usually very uncomfortable just holding a Barian weapon. Alit turned to Gilag. “We could check and see if anyone knows who commissioned this. If it was a soldier, they’re going to be in a whole lot of trouble for this.”

Gilag nodded, not taking his gaze off the smith. “Fine. We can check once we’ve checked in tonight. Have you seen anything out of the ordinary in the past few days?”

The smith rubbed his chin and frowned. “Well… I did see a flash of light a few days back.” He pointed off to the east. “It was a ways off, though. Pretty faint. Happened around sunset, if I remember right.”

Alit followed the man’s finger. Slightly northeast. The swamps were in that direction. What could have made a flash of light there? But it matched what Durbe had described; he was convinced he’d seen a flash of light in the western forests, but another one at the same time from the eastern forests. Maybe this human wasn’t lying after all. “That’ll do, then. You’ve been helpful. We’ll send someone by in a few days if we find out who commissioned that.”

The man’s face paled but he nodded and closed the door. Alit sighed. “Should we check in first?”

Gilag glanced at the sky. “We’ve still got about three hours until sunset. Plenty of time to at least start investigating.”

Alit brushed his hair out of his face and sighed again. “It’ll be nice when Durbe’s done doting on Mizael and he gets Mizael to actually help us again.”

“Mizael never helped,” Gilag said, stifling a yawn as they opened portals to the east. “He just dictated and complained.”

They disappeared into their portals, Alit laughing to himself.

—-

“Are you sure they said to the northeast?”

“I’m positive, Brother.”

Thomas scowled and glanced around. “Then where are they?”

“There’s a lot of  _northeast_ , Brother. I’m sorry that we didn’t choose the exact _northeast_ that they did.”

Mihael must have been quite frustrated to resort to sarcasm. Thomas rarely heard him make comments like that. But then, they’d been following Alit and Gilag around all day and had accomplished nothing but ending up at the despicable black market – it had gotten bolder since Arclight fell to the Barians; King Byron never would have stood for it sinking this low before the Barians had tortured him into madness – and ultimately finding themselves in the middle of a section of the forest that looked exactly like every other part of the forest.

_Return the sword to Yuma Tsukumo._

Damn Chris, damn Akari, damn this entire convoluted mission. If Chris hadn’t felt  _guilty_  that he’d ruined this woman’s life, they wouldn’t be here. But  _that’s my father’s sword, and it belongs with Yuma_  and naturally she’d reminded Chris that he’d screwed her life up and  _owed her_  for it, and Thomas and Mihael had to carry out Chris’s guilt-ridden request.

Someday he’d have to take responsibility for himself.

“I do feel something, though,” Mihael muttered, squinting at the ground. “Something like… us.”

Now that he was focusing on it and not allowing himself to get worked up over the whole goddamn sorry state of affairs in his kingdom, Thomas could feel it too. His gem was drawn to it, in a way, almost the same as it was when Chris and Mihael were in different parts of the palace and he could always feel where they were exactly. But Mihael was here, and Chris was on the river with that emperor, so it would have to be…

…no, that couldn’t be the case. Why the hell would Kaito be all the way out in the middle of this forest? It made no sense.

“He’s close,” Mihael said quietly, and he trotted off through the muddy forest. Thomas swore under his breath and followed.

They hadn’t gone more than maybe a mile before the feeling was overwhelming, and Thomas could now hear voices when he strained his ears.

“…go back and deal with your own shit,” a man’s voice snapped.

“In case you hadn’t noticed,  _your_  shit has become my-”

Kaito froze, and when Thomas and Mihael came into view, he reached immediately for his sword. His tension alerted the man and two women with him, and Thomas immediately recognized them as the Kamishiro twins and the Healer who had been captured with the prince. He had barely a moment to ponder how they’d made it this far in such a short amount of time before the Healer whispered something to the other woman, who immediately drew a rapier.

“Who are you?” Ryoga Kamishiro demanded, hoisting his lance into a fighting stance.

“Thomas and Mihael Arclight,” Kaito muttered; his sword was half-drawn, but his face was lined with worry.

Rio took a few steps closer to them. Thomas had to admire her courage. “How did you find us?”

“On accident,” Thomas said. “We were following a couple of Barians to find Yuma Tsuku-”

This, clearly, was the wrong thing to say; Ryoga made a guttural noise and lunged at him.

Mihael parried the intended blow as Thomas backed up rapidly, reaching for his own rapier. “We’re just looking for Yuma Tsukumo, you lunatics.”

Rio laughed wildly. “Why? So you can finish what you started? We know you’re the ones who brought him and our prince to the Barians in the first place!”

Thomas’s eyes darted toward the Healer standing several yards back. Surely she remembered how he had blocked the prince’s powers and controlled Tsukumo’s body. He could so easily do it again. Well, almost. It was draining, the amount of effort required to focus on controlling his own body in addition to another’s. “We didn’t come here to fight. We came here to-”

He grunted, parrying another strike from the captain. Lances had the advantage against swords; this had to stop now if he wanted to conserve his strength.

“Will you listen to us?” Mihael said breathlessly, locked in a furious parrying battle with Rio.

“Not after what you did,” Rio hissed. She seemed to have the advantage; though they seemed to be evenly matched in skill, her weapon was lighter than Mihael’s, and was ever so slightly faster. In a battle like this, a faster weapon made all the difference.

All the while, Kaito stood back, eyes gazing listlessly at a tree while his half-drawn sword lay slack in his hand.

“Damn this!” Thomas focused his energy into his gem. Ryoga was his target. He would control Ryoga, make his body turn on his sister – not to kill her, but to slow her down – so they could drop off the damned weapon that Akari _demanded_  they return to Yuma and get home before their father noticed they were gone.

Ryoga’s body seized up, and the blind fury in his eyes shifted into bewilderment. Thomas sank to his knees, breathing heavily. It was taking more energy than it had to control Yuma, which had been a substantial amount to begin with. He felt his arm become heavy, felt his energy sapping.

All he could make Ryoga Kamishiro do was lower his lance a few inches.

 _Why?_ Was it because he was a Dragoon? Was this part of his power?

“Thomas.”

Kaito regained some of the life in his eyes as he sheathed his sword. He grabbed Ryoga’s arm and pulled it down so he could kneel next to Thomas without having the lance at his back. Thomas gritted his teeth; he had failed to beat Ryoga Kamishiro. Despite his soul being removed and infused with the powers of the Barian World, he still couldn’t stand against this one man.

It infuriated him.

Nearby, Rio and Mihael had paused, both holding their weapons out, but neither attacking. Their eyes were on Kaito, who rubbed his chest. He was filthy, and Thomas wanted to scoot away from the smell that he carried. His too-big clothes were torn and grimy and bloodstained and hung off his body that looked like it hadn’t been fed in a month; the gloves on his hands were shredded, revealing nasty gashes on both hands. He looked less like a prince than a starving mercenary who lived in the woods.

“What happened to you, Kaito?” Thomas whispered.

“Where is Chris?”

Thomas felt a stab of anger. If that was all Kaito cared about – and all of this was  _Kaito’s_ fault, all of his screwing around with Thomas’s brother without a care for what it would mean for their kingdom, without a care for the consequences and how it would ruin Chris’s life – then he didn’t have a word to say to him.

“He was right.”

These words were the most unexpected ones that Thomas could have heard from Kaito. “Right about what?”

Kaito closed his eyes and nodded. One hand slid over his sword hilt. “I should have fought from the start. I shouldn’t have been a coward like him.”

“You bastard-”

Thomas gripped his sword and lunged forward. Kaito didn’t move. No fear crossed his face. He looked completely at peace.

Until Ryoga kicked him out of the way and knocked Thomas’s sword off balance.

What happened next happened too quickly for Thomas to react, but he felt the searing pain flare up in his face, and he screamed, clutching his right eye, feeling the warm blood spilling through his fingers. It felt like his face was on fire; he hadn’t felt anything comparable since the Barians had ripped out his soul. Mihael’s faint voice carried from far away. Thomas ignored it and tried to shove off the hands that had grabbed his shoulders, hands that were small and gentle; he heard some voices, some yelling, some quiet chastising, some accusations, but none of it stuck in his mind because all he felt was the raging fire in his face-

-and then a cooling rush of ice, and the change was so dramatic that he couldn’t breathe from the shock.

The hands on his face – weren’t they just on his shoulders? – pulled away and he opened his good eye to see the Healer kneeling in front of him, but she was looking up at the captain, who had his arms crossed.

“The fuck did you do to me?” he demanded shrilly.

“Pull your hands away,” the Healer said briskly, gripping his wrists with a surprisingly firm grasp. He kept his right eye firmly closed, afraid to open it. She made a soft noise of discontent before spitting on her hand and rubbing it over his face.

He immediately pulled back in disgust. “Don’t you dare touch me with that filthy-”

“Shut your goddamn mouth!” Ryoga barked. “If I had my way, I’d kill you for what you did, so be grateful she’s helping you at all.”

Thomas bit his lip so hard it drew blood, but he kept quiet. She pulled a mostly-clean cloth from her bag and wiped the spit and blood from his face.

“He’s very protective of Prince Astral and Yuma,” Kotori murmured, just loud enough for Thomas to hear. “You shouldn’t have said you were following Barians who were looking for them. You can imagine what he assumed.”

He didn’t reply. He turned his good eye to Kaito, who was kneeling where Ryoga had pushed him. “You know that they’re finalizing their control over Heartland tonight,” he said, and Kaito finally looked up. “Tenjo’s next. And then it’s all over.”

Kaito exhaled, squeezing his eyes shut. “What can I do?”

“Keep Haruto safe from them. I’m sure you and Chris must have talked about it at some point when you weren’t too busy fucking each other.”

Kaito jerked his head as though slapped, and the Kamishiros both turned their horrified gazes to the broken man kneeling on the forest floor. So they weren’t aware of what Kaito was up to? They didn’t know how Kaito had helped them infiltrate the Arclight palace, because he had been there so many times, usually in secret? Of course, though; the Dragoons had a different idea of morality than regular humans did. The thought of two men sharing a bed – the thought of two princes sharing a bed – must never have crossed their minds.

But Kaito didn’t defend himself. He pushed himself to his feet and rubbed at his face. “Then I suppose I must get back to him.” He turned to Ryoga, who didn’t look at him. “Thank… you. For your help.”

Ryoga nodded stiffly.

Kaito’s body slumped as he waved a hand half-heartedly and formed a portal. “Until we meet again, then.”

When the portal vanished, Mihael bent down and placed the sword on the ground. “We really intended simply to return this weapon to Yuma Tsukumo, per his sister’s request. When you see him… please give it to him.”

Thomas felt Mihael’s hands pull at his arms, and he let Mihael help him stand. He was exhausted; his entire body felt as drained as if he had run a marathon with no food or water to replenish it. When he tried to open his eye, it was blurry.

“You’ll always have a scar,” the Healer said quietly. She continued kneeling on the ground. “And your sight may not be as good in both eyes. I’m sorry.”

Thomas cast a glare in Ryoga’s direction. The Dragoon stared back indifferently. “If we encounter one another again, it will not be in peace.”

“That’s fine with me,” Ryoga said, shifting his lance. “I won’t hold back next time.”

As Thomas dematerialized, he saw the Dragoon turn his back and walk off, his sister at his side.

—-

Astral was still unconscious, and Yuma was very worried. He had never been out this long before, and the only reason Yuma wasn’t in complete despair was because Astral’s breathing was steady. On top of that, Shingetsu was starting to ask increasingly intrusive questions about Yuma’s friendship with Ryoga. Yuma didn’t mind talking about their friendship – how Ryoga had thought him annoying for the first month, how they had warmed to one another on a three-week survival training in the mountains, how Ryoga had taught him the stars and Yuma had taught Ryoga how to identify location based on the plants in the area – but then it got into the realm of questions Yuma would rather not answer. Whether Ryoga ever smiled (Yuma remembered the first time Ryoga had smiled at him; they had been doing an inventory of the palace weaponry and Ryoga had made fun of Yuma’s handwriting). Whether Yuma would be able to forgive Ryoga for withholding the information about his sister. What Yuma would say to him when they were reunited.

They were valid questions, and Yuma could understand that Shingetsu saw no harm in them. But Yuma had to tell him to change the subject as they walked, because some of the questions were ones that Yuma didn’t even know the answers to. And every time he thought he could bring himself to forgive Ryoga, Shingetsu would make an offhanded, innocent comment that somehow reminded Yuma of how his sister had been forced into marrying the enemy and he would be cast back into doubt again.

_Did Ryoga lie to me because he didn’t think I could handle knowing? Or did he just not think it was a good time?_

It might have been Yuma’s fault. Maybe Ryoga was trying to think of the right time to tell him, but then Yuma had kissed him, and they hadn’t spoken in two days before they were split up again.

But then, shouldn’t Ryoga have told him immediately? Wouldn’t Ryoga want to know as soon as possible if something had happened to Rio?

“Yuma.” Shingetsu grabbed the back of his cloak.

“Now isn’t a good time, Shingetsu,” Yuma murmured wearily. Astral was getting heavier to carry around and Yuma was already weak from lack of food. He didn’t think he could go another round of Shingetsu wanting to know what Ryoga’s favorite color was.

“No, I… I think someone’s following us.”

Yuma paused. He didn’t hear anything. “Are you sure?”

Shingetsu nodded, wide-eyed. “Positive.”

The last thing they needed was to be chased through the forest with Yuma dragging dead weight with him. It could be someone harmless, someone who had just wandered through. But it could be someone who had identified them. Like a Barian. Yuma could see only one outcome at this point if it were a Barian. “Shingetsu, I hate to ask you to do something like this, but…” Yuma looked down at the unconscious man in his arms. “Would you… go see who it is?”

Shingetsu gave him a sloppy salute. “I can do that. I’m very good at hiding.”

Somehow, Yuma had his doubts about that, but he nodded encouragingly as Shingetsu hurried off. He picked up the pace. He needed to put as much distance between them and the person following them as possible.

It wasn’t nearly fast enough.

Shingetsu sprinted up next to him, breathing heavily. “Two men, not too far behind us. One is a big guy who has kind of a shaved head but with hair that sticks up in the middle, and the other is short but he has dark skin and black hair-”

Despite the urgency, Yuma froze.

They would never be able to outrun two Barian generals, let alone outfight them. Not in their state. They needed Astral’s powers. They needed Hope.

“Who are they, Yuma?”

“Alit and Gilag,” Yuma whispered. “Emperor Durbe’s generals.”

Shingetsu’s mouth opened in surprise. “Oh gods. Yuma, what do we do?”

They could try to run, and delay the inevitable by a few minutes, or Yuma could try and fight. He was skilled with the sword, but Ryoga’s sword had a heavier balance than he was used to, and both Alit and Gilag were equally skilled in close combat. Yuma’s fatigue and lack of energy would cripple him.

Either way, he didn’t see how they would last another ten minutes.

“Yuma?”

Shingetsu was waiting for him to make a choice. He swallowed, trying to ignore the guilt tugging at his heart. Shingetsu had never wanted to get mixed up in this. He was innocent, and trusted Yuma, and somehow got tangled up in their web of misfortune. Yuma couldn’t let Shingetsu die because of their mistakes and their problems.

“We’re going to run,” Yuma said finally. “When they catch up-”

“Don’t say things like that-”

“Shut up and let me finish.” Yuma turned and trotted off, gritting his teeth at the effort. “When they catch up, you need to run, no matter what.”

_Let me die fighting, at least._

“Yuma, no!”

“Shingetsu, just do it!”

Shingetsu looked back through the trees. Two figures were about eighty yards back, and they had spotted them. Yuma closed his eyes. The last time Alit had chased him, Yuma had been leading him along for an ambush. Now, Yuma was being chased like a lion hunting a scared deer.

_I’m sorry Astral. I failed you._

“Don’t give up, Yuma.” Shingetsu took Yuma’s face in his hands and gazed at him intently. “Save your prince. I’ll hold them off.”

What a foolish suggestion! What could Shingetsu possibly do to hold off the Barians? But Shingetsu gave him a smile and a push before heading back toward their pursuers.

Would Shingetsu be one more dead friend on Yuma’s conscience?

—-

Yuma ran. He stumbled through the trees, crashing through low branches, scraping his face, getting leaves and twigs tangled in his hair and Astral’s hair, but still he ran. He never turned to see if the Barians were still pursuing him. He was sure they were. What good could a bard do against two of the most skilled warriors in the Barian Empire?

Droplets of water trailed behind him as he finally fell to his knees, unable to move another step. He collapsed onto Astral’s chest, tears soaking through Astral’s dirty robes. He hoped when they found him, they would be merciful enough to kill him instead of bringing him back to Arclight. But they wouldn’t kill Astral, would they? They needed his powers.

 _I would rather die than let them have my powers_ , Astral had once declared, and Yuma wondered if he should be the one to do it. If he should be the one to kill Astral to save him from the Barians.

A hand touched his shoulder and Yuma reached desperately for his sword.

“Shh, it’s me, it’s just me.”

It was impossible. “Shingetsu? How did-”

There was a harder look in Shingetsu’s eyes now. A grim look. “Yuma, I… I know you’ve been upset that Captain Kamishiro was keeping something from you, but I have something I’ve been keeping a secret too.”

Yuma’s throat went dry. “What… kind of secret?”

Shingetsu bit his lip and furrowed his brow. “Yuma, please, you have to understand-”

“What secret?”

“Yuma, I’m a- I’m a Barian.”

Yuma couldn’t breathe. That was impossible. There was no way… no way that this could be. Shingetsu had been a good friend, a loyal one, if not a bit overeager and intrusive. He couldn’t be a Barian.

“Look, we don’t have a lot of time.” Shingetsu knelt next to Yuma and hesitantly reached for one of his hands. Yuma drew back and Shingetsu held out his hands in defeat. “All I could do was slow them down. They’ll be here soon. I… I know it won’t work again. You have to get out of here.”

“Why should I trust you?” Yuma snapped. “Why should I trust someone who says they’re a Barian? An enemy? One who invaded my kingdom and killed everyone I love?”

“Because we’re not all like  _them_!” Shingetsu’s eyes were filled with tears. “Please, Yuma, you have to believe me-”

“You’re a Barian!” Yuma intended to scream it at him, but it came out a strangled whisper. That was probably for the best. “You’re all the same!”

“No we’re not!” Shingetsu grabbed Yuma’s face again, and Yuma felt a shudder wrack through his body at his touch, but Shingetsu held him firmly. “You trusted me when you thought I was a human! You trusted Rei Shingetsu. I swear to you, Yuma, I will never hurt you. The Barians who invaded your home, they’re led by the Seven Emperors. We’re not all like them. Some of us want to live in peace. We don’t want to be hated. We don’t want constant war and death- please, Yuma, even if our friendship is weaker now, please trust me. This once.”

Yuma reached up with shaking hands – though from anger or fear, he didn’t know – and pulled Shingetsu’s hands away. “I don’t have the energy to take Prince Astral anywhere.”

Shingetsu lowered his eyes and nodded. He had never hurt Yuma or Astral before. Yuma would have to trust him this once. In return, he wouldn’t tell Ryoga that they had been travelling with a Barian. “When we were in that village, Prince Astral used his powers to form a massive transportation portal. I’ve never seen one so large, and it must have used up an incredible amount of energy.”

It made sense. “That’s why he hasn’t woken up.”

“I would guess so. If… you could wake him up, he could probably do it again, and take the two of you to safety.”

“He’s unconscious,” Yuma snapped. “If I could wake him up, I would have done it three days ago.”

“I know, I know,” Shingetsu said quickly. “That’s why… that’s why…” He looked at his hands. “I could… give him some of my energy.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Yuma, please-”

“No.” Was Shingetsu insane? There was no way he would let a Barian transfer its powers into Astral. He couldn’t let Astral be tainted by Barian powers. “He’s pure. I won’t let you.”

“Then you’re both going to die.”

Yuma reached out and touched Astral’s face. They had come so far together. Against all odds, they had survived. Could they possibly be able to save their kingdom now?

It was too heavy a burden for Yuma to carry.

“Barians can’t touch his key,” Yuma whispered. “It pushes them away.”

“But you can touch it,” Shingetsu said quietly.

He seemed like a different person. Was this really the same absentminded bard that had followed them into the Waste? Was that an act?

“Yes.”

Shingetsu turned his head back the way he’d come. Apparently satisfied that Alit and Gilag weren’t following yet, he reached deep into one of his pockets and pulled out a tiny charm in the shape of the Barian crest. Yuma clenched his fists. He felt nauseous, even thinking about doing this.

“The crest is sacred to ancient Barians,” Shingetsu whispered, rubbing a finger over it tenderly. “It used to symbolize the Dragon, an ancient protector. The Emperors perverted it into a symbol of conquest.” He sounded bitter.

Yuma stared at it for a long moment before reaching for it. Shingetsu placed in in Yuma’s hand and clasped it with both of his. There was a flash of soft red light and a sharp tingling in Yuma’s fingers. Shingetsu let out a low breath. “I’ll go keep an eye on them. Just have Prince Astral teleport a few miles. It’ll be enough.” He squeezed Yuma’s hand. “Thank you for trusting me, Yuma. It means a lot to me.”

Shingetsu stood and hurried off, leaving Yuma alone with Astral. Yuma rubbed his free hand over his face. He couldn’t believe he was about to do this to Astral.

But if it saved their lives… he had no choice.

—-

It didn’t take long for Alit and Gilag to find him leaning against a tree, arms crossed. He greeted them with a wide grin. Oh, how he had waited years for this moment. It was almost a shame; they were good warriors. But their loyalty to Durbe ran too deep. As long as Durbe had even one loyal general, he had the advantage. He’d have to come up with something extra special for Mizael later, and he had a few ideas. He couldn’t repress his giggles.

“Who the hell are you?” Gilag’s heavy hammer was in his hands even as Alit rubbed the weapons on his knuckles.

Vector held his hands out peaceably. Well, somewhat peaceably, anyway. “What, you don’t recognize me?” He placed a hand to his soft human face. “Oh, well, I suppose you don’t.” He shrugged, letting his hand drop again as he pushed himself from the tree and approached the generals. “What are you doing here, anyway? Did dearest Durbie have an epiphany? Oh!” He snapped his fingers. “That’s right! How’s Mizzy doing? Still alive, I hope?”

“Vector,” Gilag spat, and Alit tensed. The two took a step back, almost in sync, and Vector giggled again.

“The one and only!” Vector placed his hands on either side of his face and gave them a wide, childish smile.

“The other lords have been wondering where you’ve been for a week,” Alit said warily. “Where  _have_  you been? Why are you out here?”

Vector pouted. “Only a week? I could  _swear_  I’ve been gone for almost two.” It didn’t bother him in the slightest. Let the fools think he was imbalanced. The more insane they believed he was, the more he could get away with, after all. “Ah well, it’s not important. What’s Durbie been up to? Did he find a cure for the poison or is Mizzy dead?”

“It’s none of-”

Vector pinpointed the exact second that Alit figured it out by the way those pretty green eyes widened. Gilag figured it out only seconds later, and his hand was halfway to his mouth before he caught himself.

“You tried to kill Durbe?” Gilag whispered.

“Well, I wouldn’t say  _I_ did,” Vector said, holding his hands up dismissively. “More like… I encouraged it.” He tried to fight back his grin but he couldn’t. Everything just fell into place so  _well_. “Just nudge the right people into placing their pieces on the board a certain way and it works so much better. Less blood on your hands, you know?”

“You bastard,” Alit hissed, lunging at him, but Vector had complete control of the air movements. He vanished and rematerialized behind Gilag, pulling a knife from his belt.

“My God, you had me tell you my secrets,” Vector whispered, thrusting the knife into Gilag’s torso.  “How careless of me. Now I  _will_  have blood on my hands.”

It happened almost in slow-motion; Gilag stumbled forward, Vector twisted the knife deeper, and… Gilag was on his knees… coughing up blood… falling… A satisfying feeling, really, with the warm blood spilling out over Vector’s cold human hands…

Alit let out a wild scream and ran at Vector again with tears in his eyes – as if he didn’t learn the first time, poor thing – but Vector left the knife in Gilag’s dying body and wound up behind Alit, catching the smaller Barian in a chokehold. Alit was physically stronger, but Vector had done this before with larger Barians. It was a shame he wouldn’t be able to feel Alit’s blood pour over his hands, but he relished the sound of Alit’s staggered breathing and the way Alit’s hands clawed weakly at Vector’s. He knew what was coming.

“Don’t worry,” Vector whispered in his ear. “It’s for the best, you know. Mizael will be joining you soon enough, and you’ll have an eternity together to regret giving your blood to Durbe.”

Alit’s mouth formed a word, but it never escaped his throat before Vector snapped his neck.

Vector released the former general’s body, which crumpled to the muddy forest floor. He tilted his head at Gilag, whose blood was no longer flowing. A shameful death, dying in their human forms, but it was what they deserved for betraying their kingdom. He ripped the knife from Gilag’s lifeless body and stroked the blade lovingly, a smile creeping over his face.

“It’s all for the best,” he said, but no one except God was there to hear him.

He should get back to Yuma, and put the last piece of his puzzle in place. _Thanks for doing all the dirty work for me, Durbiekins. You did such a good job._


	37. Honorable Generals

Mizael rarely saw Durbe so distressed; the lord paced the small balcony, slender fingers caressing his main gem as he stared out at the never-ending forest on the river’s opposite bank. Perhaps it was because he had stayed in his human form for nearly two weeks, but Durbe seemed particularly uncomfortable in his Barian body, as though he’d forgotten what his gem felt like. Mizael certainly had, and he’d spent nearly fifteen minutes lying on Durbe’s bed with his hand clenched over his own gem while Durbe dabbed cool water on his face. Even now, hours later, he reached up to touch it to comfort himself. He hated when Durbe was worked up. Durbe was supposed to be the dauntless leader.

The reason for Durbe’s distress was clear; Alit and Gilag hadn’t yet returned. They were three hours late checking in.

“What if something happened to them?” Durbe said for the sixth time, and Mizael had to close his eyes to keep from rolling them in exasperation.

“I’m sure they’ve found something and didn’t have time to come back,” Mizael said wearily. He’d repeated this same refrain – or something similar – periodically for the past two hours. It didn’t comfort Durbe in the slightest.

“I told them that if they found Prince Astral not to fight if Tsukumo and the Dragoons were with him,” Durbe muttered, ignoring Mizael completely.

Mizael contemplated asking Durbe how Prince Astral and his cohort had possibly managed to make it to the forest unnoticed but decided that it would be about as effective as talking to the balcony railing for as much attention as Durbe was paying him. Instead, he crossed his arms and sighed. “Durbe, would it ease your mind if I led a group to find them?”

It did not. “No! No.” Durbe ran a hand across his face, fingers lingering a moment on the smooth skin where his mouth would be on his human body. “If something happened to them, I don’t want…” He closed his eyes.

Mizael reached over and grabbed Durbe by the shoulders. Durbe’s eyes opened again. The muscles under one of them twitched involuntarily. “You need to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“I will lead a few squads out to find Alit and Gilag.” Mizael shook his head warningly when Durbe narrowed his eyes at him. “No, don’t argue. Go curl up on the bed and do your research and let yourself fall asleep.” He traced a finger over the marking under one of Durbe’s eyes where it was twitching constantly. Durbe tore his gaze away. “I will return at first sign of danger, I swear to you.”

He was sure that Durbe would refuse again, that he would give him a tetchy order not to do anything of the sort, that he absolutely forbade Mizael from going out into the field, but he didn’t expect Durbe’s shoulders to fall, for his head to bow, or for Durbe to reach up and give his hand a gentle squeeze.

“At the first sign of danger,” Durbe murmured. He looked up at Mizael again. “Do not allow your pride to interfere. That’s my order to you.”

Mizael pulled his hand away. Durbe was getting too emotional. It wasn’t like him, and Mizael wasn’t sure he cared for it. “I will return shortly, then.”

He turned and strode into a portal, pleased that he had managed to hide the worry he held for his friends so well.

—-

_“You’re Prince Astral. It’s an honor.”_

_Astral’s eyes opened to a beautiful sunset directly overhead. Had he collapsed? Were the revenants-_

_No._

_The ground beneath him was rocky, not dusty, and there was an eerie silence save the voice that had spoken to him. He sat up._

_Sitting on a nearby rock was a vaguely familiar man, though Astral was certain he had never spoken to a man like this before. Had he?_

_The man grinned. “Do you know me?”_

_Astral started shaking his head but there was something about him… the jaw was sharper, the voice deeper and stronger, the body more built, the eyes slightly different, but the grin was the same. “Are you Yuma’s father?”_

_“You got it!” He stood, hands on his hips. He wore a plain white shirt and heavy trousers, much different from the silks and jewels that the other inhabitants of the Astral World wore. That was certainly where he was, because Kazuma Tsukumo was dead. “The gods weren’t really expecting you and they’re not sure where you are, but until they find you, I wanted to take the chance to talk to you.”_

_Astral climbed to his feet and brushed his robes out of habit. There was no dirt on them. “Talk to me about what?”_

_Kazuma opened his mouth to reply and abruptly shut it again, frowning. He seemed to be listening to something. “Ah. Seems I have less time than I thought.” He smiled wryly. “They don’t like me here much. I’m too intrusive, they say.”_

_“What-”_

_“Not this time, I’m afraid.” Kazuma clapped his hand on Astral’s shoulder. “I know humorless old Rabelais warned you not to get too close to my son, but they’re wrong.”_

_Was this man really telling Astral that a god’s messenger was wrong? “With all due respect-”_

_Kazuma shook his head. “No, listen. Their plan for this world is… terrible. Bad things will happen if you get involved with Yuma and the Dragoons, but worse things will happen if you don’t. There’s another way.”_

_This was ludicrous. “You’re not a god, Kazuma. How do you know what’s best for the world?”_

_“No, I’m not a god. I’m just a man. Which is why I know that what they’re doing is a very bad thing.”_

_“What are they doing that is so-”_

_“Stay close to Yuma,” Kazuma warned, stepping back. He glanced up, where the sunset was rapidly reverting to midday. “Stay close to him or you will both die.”_

—-

Pain shot through Astral’s chest as his eyes snapped open, a dark, star-spotted sky above. Where was he? He was just in the Astral World… wasn’t he?

Yes, he had been talking to Rabelais…  _Time is nearing its end until the Dragon wakes_. That was what they were saying when Astral felt… something. Something powerful. Something intrusive, something that ripped him from Astral World.

“Astral!”

He became aware of Yuma’s arms wrapped around him, holding him mostly aloft of the rocky ground under them. They were halfway up a steep slope, it seemed, and nowhere near the Waste judging by the expanse of trees stretched out before them. How had they gotten here?

“Where are we?” Astral let Yuma prop him up.

Yuma nodded up the slope. “About twenty miles south of the Dragoon Shrine.”

That couldn’t be right. He surely could not have been unconscious for more than a few hours. “Did you… carry me all the way here?”

Yuma laughed and helped Astral to his feet. “No. You transported all of us out of the Waste-”

Yes, that was right; Rabelais had mentioned that he had unlocked that particular ability.

“-and you, me, and Shingetsu ended up… close by here.”

There was a noticeable hesitation in Yuma’s voice but Astral was more concerned with something else. “Where is Shingetsu, then? And the others?”

Yuma glanced back at the forest. “Alit and Gilag chased us… Shingetsu stayed behind to… give us time to escape. You woke up just in time to transport us a few miles away.”

“I see.” Astral couldn’t remember waking up at any point before now. He only remembered sitting by the mountain lake in the Astral World as Rabelais talked to him –  _be wary of Yuma Tsukumo and the Dragoons_ – but Kazuma had felt differently. He couldn’t know more than the gods, though. He seemed like a low-plane troublemaker. As for Shingetsu, Astral was more concerned at his apathy toward the bard’s inevitable death than he was at the fact that Shingetsu had sacrificed himself to distract the Barian generals so Yuma could escape. “I don’t recall.”

“You collapsed again right after.”

“Mm.” His arm tightened around Yuma’s waist. He certainly didn’t remember that. “Where are the others?”

Yuma’s eyes narrowed at the steep path in front of them. “I don’t know. Somewhere else, probably.”

“How could I have produced a portal large enough to transport that many people to different places?” Astral was getting annoyed. He had the distinct impression Yuma was keeping something from him.

“You used a lot of energy.” Yuma glanced to the side. “You were unconscious for three days.”

Three  _days_? “That can’t be right.”

“It’s true.” Yuma paused. “Astral, are you all right? You seem angry.”

“Nothing is wrong. I am just confused.” He waited for Yuma to nod before hesitantly starting up the path again. “Where are we going?”

“The Shrine. A long time ago, Ryoga told me if I ever got lost, to go to the Shrine and he would find me there.”

 _Assuming Ryoga and the others are even still alive,_  Astral thought grimly, and if they weren’t, what then?

—-

The fragrant bath water was hot and relaxed every muscle in Kaito’s aching body. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed luxuries like this until he’d gone a month without them. Perhaps Ryoga was right. Perhaps he was a spoiled prince.

Still, spoiled prince or no, the Healer had refused to let him anywhere near Haruto until he had bathed and changed into proper palace attire. That was fair. He hadn’t had a proper bath in weeks, and a potent combination of dirt, blood, and sweat permeated every pore on his body. He was disgusting. Ryoga had mentioned it at every opportunity, but it wasn’t as though Ryoga was one to talk about proper bathing when he hadn’t bathed in an equally long time. They had been outdoors, in the forest, in the desert. It was different there. Being in a pristine palace with clean people dressed in soft cloth robes and silks reminded him of that.

It also reminded him of the last bath he’d had here, the morning after his last night with Chris. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. It hadn’t been their best night together. There had been something different about Chris, something distant and cold – his lack of a soul, Kaito realized now. Rather, his soul being transferred into a small, pretty gem on a small, pretty bracelet.

 _I wonder if making love to me would feel the same_ , he wondered idly, but it didn’t matter anymore. He would never have Chris back, not now. It was fine, he tried to convince himself, because they both knew it couldn’t last. They had responsibilities of their own. Chris had found a wife, it had seemed, and Kaito should be happy that their affair was over now and that Chris could produce an heir and carry on his family’s honor. No one would ever have to know that Prince Kaito had long since shed Prince Christopher of his purity, or that ever since that hot afternoon in the stable yard ten years ago they had been searching out inventive ways and places to make love, sneaking around the palace for an empty room like they were playing a game of hide and seek.

He wished he could move on as quickly as Chris had, but he needed to focus on Haruto and his kingdom. They were more important than his silly wishes for something he never should have done in the first place.

He stayed in the water for a long time, until it became tepid and he realized that he had been sitting in the dirt and sweat and blood that his servant had failed to rinse off his skin before allowing him into the clean, hot bath water. He leaned over the side of the tub and grabbed the robe that he had tossed carelessly onto the floor.

He’d barely climbed out of the bath and pulled the robe on when the bathing room door opened. Kaito opened his mouth to remind the servants to knock but froze when he saw his father standing in the doorway.

Faker stared at him and he stared right back, wondering how furious Faker was going to be with him for running off again – he certainly wouldn’t be able to pretend that he’d been at Arclight this time – before Faker broke the silence.

“Where have you been, Kaito?” His voice was surprisingly calm, though Kaito could detect an edge of anger.

“Out,” Kaito said. “Excuse me.” He tried to walk past Faker into the spare bedroom he was forced to stay in while workers fixed the other wing of the palace where his room was, but Faker grabbed him by the back of the bathrobe and pulled him closer.

“I have worked for a year to keep this kingdom out of the Barians’ hands,” Faker said in a low voice. His eyes were narrowed so much that Kaito almost mistook them for being closed. “If you’ve been undermining me, I swear I will give you over to them without a second thought.”

“It’s too late for that,” Kaito said icily, and Faker’s eyes lingered on the mark around Kaito’s. There was a tightness in Faker’s mouth, a disgusted twist to his expression. Fitting, to gaze upon his failure and embarrassment of a son that way.

“I just received news an hour ago.” Faker’s voice was urgent now. “Heartland has fallen.”

Thomas had said as much but hearing it from his father made it more real. Kaito lifted his hand to his face and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And then there was one,” he murmured. How had this happened? How had the Barians conquered three kingdoms in one year?

_Seems the gods have abandoned us after all._

“You disappear for weeks and only bother to show up one time to let your family know you’re even still alive, and then you show up again dressed like a travelling vagabond, reeking like month-old cabbages and covered in blood. Yet you still refuse to tell me what you were doing.”

Kaito shrugged. “I didn’t think I smelled quite that bad.”

“I swear it, Kaito,” Faker breathed, hands tightening painfully on Kaito’s shoulders. “I will not let my kingdom fall because of you.”

“Is Haruto awake?”

Faker pushed Kaito away and stormed out of the bathing room without another word. That was fine, and went better than Kaito expected. He’d thought Faker would hit him again for being disrespectful. He could never and would never tell his father anything he had been doing. Plotting against the Barians and working with the very people the Barians had told him to kill on sight violated Faker’s agreement with them, and Kaito’s for that matter. _I’ll do what you say, just leave Haruto alone._

Would they, now? He doubted it. Which meant that he had precious little time to come up with a way to protect his kingdom and his brother.

He dressed quickly in the palace’s soft blue silks. They felt unnatural on his skin after wearing the heavier coat and cotton trousers for so long.  _At least they match your eye now_ , he thought, bemused, as he walked into the infirmary where his brother rested.

Haruto was awake after all, and Kaito was sure his irritation showed. Had he not requested to be informed as soon as possible when his brother woke?

“How long has he been awake?” he demanded quietly of the Healer, who looked marginally more satisfied at Kaito’s appearance than he had before.

“A few hours.”

“And you didn’t bother to tell me?” Kaito’s voice rose.

“Not when you were unsuited for being in my ward,” the Healer said in clipped tones. He gestured vaguely around the room. “I prefer keeping my room clean for my patients.”

It was sound reasoning but Kaito was still angry. He would have to let it go. “I’m clean now. Let me see my brother.”

He sidestepped the Healer, who made no motion to stop him, but said something under his breath before walking away. Haruto sat up against several pillows, a book in his hands, and he frowned when Kaito approached the bed.

“Where have you been?” and it was like Faker all over again.

Kaito gestured to the side of the bed. “Can I sit?”

“No.”

He did anyway and Haruto’s mouth tightened.

“I’m so close to being able to help you, Haruto,” Kaito murmured. He reached for Haruto’s hand, but Haruto pulled it away.

“Helping me by selling yourself to them isn’t really helping me, Brother,” Haruto said stiffly, and he pointed openly at Kaito’s mark. “No one will ever recognize you as king now.”

If Haruto only knew how often that thought had crossed Kaito’s mind for the past two weeks. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It  _does_  matter.” Haruto glared up at him. “I’m not more important than this kingdom.”

“You are the most important thing to me.”

Haruto shook his head and rolled over so his back was to Kaito. “But you won’t even tell me what you’ve been doing for the past few weeks.”

Kaito sighed and stared at the gashes in his hands. He hadn’t let Kotori Heal them. It was a constant reminder of how foolish he had been. “Remember when you were younger and we used to go out on hunting trips when you were feeling good?”

His brother simply crossed his arms.

“You wouldn’t let me kill anything,” Kaito went on quietly. Haruto’s reaction to him stung. “’Everything deserves a chance to be free.’ That’s what you said.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with anything.”

“It has everything to do with everything, Haruto.” Kaito rubbed his fingers over his wounds. He debated how much to tell Haruto about him and Chris. In the end, he couldn’t say anything at all. “I made some stupid decisions. I was free to make them. I used up my chance at freedom. Now all I can do to atone is to help you. If I save you, I save our kingdom.”

The Barians had already conquered the continent. Astral and Heartland fell in less than a month. Tenjo, with no large military and the smallest population, would be only a few days away from the same fate. He tried not to remind himself that Prince Astral, with far greater powers than Haruto’s, had failed to stop the Barians from conquering his kingdom and that it was ridiculous to hold onto the hope that Haruto could make any difference here.

“You should go.” Haruto didn’t move. “I’m sure you have important things to do that you don’t want to tell me about.”

Tears stung at the corners of Kaito’s eyes but he blinked them back. “I’ll be back later to see how you’re doing, then.”

As he reached the door, Haruto’s quiet voice caught his attention.

_“The Dragon nears its awakening. The world will soon burn.”_

—-

The cramped cabin made Akari sick. There was no fresh air, no way to relieve her stomach, and nothing to focus on to keep herself from remembering that the ship was moving. Worse, Chris had forced her into having dinner – with Alasco.

“These stuffed mushrooms are delicious.” Alasco alone seemed to be the only one enjoying the meal; Chris poked at his potatoes and Akari hadn’t touched anything. She was certain if she did, she would throw up all over the table. Alasco probably wouldn’t like that too much. Not that she cared much what he thought at this point. “You should try one, Lady Akari.”

“Mushrooms are fungi,” Akari grunted.

Alasco rolled his eyes and tossed his napkin on his empty plate. “Food is about the only thing you humans did right and you won’t even appreciate that.”

“I don’t exactly appreciate you referring to us as ‘you humans’ either.”

Chris kicked her under the table and she grimaced at the spike of pain in her ankle. Alasco didn’t notice.

“I had a human friend once,” Alasco said, leaning back.

“Good for y-nng.”

Chris didn’t bother hiding the sharp jab in her ribs this time. She scowled up at him and he stared directly ahead with the most impassive expression she had ever seen on him.

“He was an adventurer,” Alasco went on as though Akari hadn’t spoken. “It was… perhaps eight or nine years ago.”

Akari abruptly stopped massaging her ribs.

“He didn’t know I was a Barian at first. So he let me travel with him. We had quite a good time together, Kazuma and I.”

Chris tensed, but that was nothing to what Akari felt. Her father was friends… with a Barian lord?

_I made a good friend out there. He was an interesting fellow._

“Kazuma told me of his beautiful wife and two children. One was a boy, capturing the hearts of everyone in the village with his charm. The other, a young woman who refused to be married.” Alasco smiled. “They couldn’t be more different, Kazuma said.”

“I think that Lady Akari looks like she needs some fresh air,” Chris said, taking Akari’s arm, and for once, she let him.

“I haven’t gotten to the part where he found out what I was. It took him a few years, though.”

Akari swayed. If he said anything else about her father, she  _was_ going to throw up on him. “I’m not interested.”

_We’re going to the Waste. He wanted to show me some ruins. Keep Yuma out of trouble or he’ll end up married before you do!_

“He was stunned, at first, and a little angry,” Alasco called after them. “But he called me his friend anyway, and can you imagine how surprised he was when I killed him?”

Chris pushed the door open, and it was probably best that he was holding her because her knees gave out at that moment.

She was trapped on a ship, forced to dine with her father’s murderer.

—-

“I need the oldest maps you have,” Kaito said without preamble, striding into the library.

Ukyo half-stood, eyes wide. “My lord…?”

Kaito stopped mid-stride and held out his hands. “ _Now_.”

“Where have you-”

 _For the gods’ sakes._ “I am going to throw the next person who asks me where I’ve been in the dungeons,” Kaito said, snapping his fingers at Ukyo. “The maps. Now.”

Ukyo stammered out an apology, but Kaito was already halfway to the desk at the back of the library. He pulled the small journal from an inside pocket.

_The Mountain, the River, and the Garden._

“Here you are, Lord Kaito, but if I may-”

“Is there anywhere that a mountain, a river, and a garden intersect?” Kaito interrupted, smoothing out the map.

The librarian frowned. “There is the Galaxy River that cuts between the mountains bordering Astral, Heartland, and Arclight, but I don’t know about a garden.”

Kaito scanned the map. The script was tiny and written in an archaic dialect. Reading it was difficult. “How old is this map?”

Ukyo bent over it and peered at the inscriptions on the bottom. “This is a fifty year old reproduction of a map made nearly eight hundred years ago, my lord.”

Kaito didn’t recognize most of the geopolitical boundaries. There were two large kingdoms, and several tiny ones. But while the tiny ones had names he had never heard of, the two largest were definitely familiar.

The Astral Kingdom extended all the way across the mountains, across the Wyvern Forest, and to the Revise River, while across the river, the Barian Kingdom stretched into modern Arclight. Kaito traced a finger along the boundary between the two. A river, but no mountains and no garden. He didn’t know what he expected. Possibly that the ultimate clash would take place along the two borders. It would be fitting, wouldn’t it?

“What would the Garden of the Gods even be?” he said, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

“I’m sorry?”

Kaito looked up at Ukyo, who hovered anxiously over the map. Ukyo wanted to help Kaito, but was it wise to allow someone else to have knowledge of this legend?

 _Ryoga would be pissed,_ Kaito thought, and that was the deciding factor.

“Tell me what you make of this.” Kaito gestured for Ukyo to sit next to him and slid the journal over, the page open to Ryoga’s scrawls.

Ukyo’s eyes narrowed with each line until he finally looked up at Kaito, looking more puzzled than he had before. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s better that you not know,” Kaito muttered. “It doesn’t make much sense to me, but maybe you can help.” He pointed at the map. “The legend and the map are close to the same age. And the geographic locations in each of the three stanzas must converge somewhere, right? They’re not three different meeting places?”

Ukyo mouthed along with the stanzas again and scribbled a few notes. Kaito watched him intently, heart hammering. Was he onto something?

“I think…” Ukyo frowned.

“What?” Kaito pressed after a moment.

“It sounds less like a legend than a prophecy.”

They sounded the same to Kaito. “What do you mean?”

Ukyo pointed at the fourth lines of each legend. “The broken soul. The soulless sinner. They sound like specific people, fated to meet in this… garden.”

 _The soulless sinner._  Kaito lifted his hand to his chest before he could stop himself. “So the garden is a different place than the mountain and the river?”

“That would be my guess.” Ukyo closed his eyes. “My lord, I have a bad feeling about this. It sounds like nothing but destruction will rain upon this earth if this prophecy gets fulfilled.”

_The Dragon nears its awakening. The world will soon burn._

“Baptism by fire, right?” Kaito said with much more confidence than he felt. He ignored the uneasiness in his chest. “Let’s figure this thing out.”

—-

_Dearest Lord Durbe,_

_Pherka and I are working toward a meeting with the merchants’ council, which has a very convoluted democratic system set up for lawmaking in this kingdom. They’re being deliberately unhelpful, I feel, and Pherka has suggested just showing up at their door and threatening to burn the place to the ground. I cannot tell if she’s joking but I suspect she’s not, because she’s Pherka._

_In the meantime, we have been taking inventory of the palace. It seems Mr. Heartland had quite the attachment to poisons. Do let us know when he reaches Baria so I can be there in person to sentence him. Maybe give him a taste of his own medicine._

_Give General Mizael my best (and Pherka’s, even though she says otherwise)._

_-Ilya_

Durbe sighed.

Mizael had been gone for a few hours. Each minute that passed caused more anxiety; Durbe had to get up and walk around the library, he skimmed three books, pressed his forehead to the window, poked at the logs in the fireplace, and reread Ilya’s letter for the seventh or eighth time.

When the door finally opened and Mizael walked in alone, Durbe bowed his head and turned away. He knew.

“Durbe, you should come with me.” Mizael’s voice was soft. He pulled at Durbe’s sleeve.

“All right,” Durbe whispered, following his lead.

—-

The soft earth squelched under Durbe’s formerly white boots as he stumbled after Mizael through the dark, marshy woods. Mizael held a small ball of light in his outstretched palm as they walked along in silence. Durbe didn’t want to see what he was about to see. Finally, they stopped.

“Here.” Mizael’s voice quivered.

Durbe fell to his knees next to the two forms lying on the ground and stroked the dark, once handsome human face of his most honor-bound warrior. Alit’s green eyes were open slightly, gazing in unseeing surprise, neck neatly snapped. Next to him, in a pool of dried blood, lay Gilag, a hole sliced cleanly through his abdomen.

Both from behind.

Whoever did this had no honor.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “You were great warriors.”

His shoulders shook with the effort to keep from breaking down into sobs. It was unbefitting a Barian lord to weep over the loss of his warriors’ lives. The thought afforded him no reprieve as tears spilled over his cheeks anyway.

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder and Durbe looked up through drained, waterlogged eyes into Mizael’s tired, worried ones that reflected the red light in his palm. Mizael knelt next to him, hand still resting on his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty,” Mizael said quietly.

“I sent them to their deaths, Mizael,” Durbe whispered hollowly.

“They’re warriors. They swore to lay down their lives for a better future for their home.”

“And now they’ll never see a better future.”

Mizael removed his hand from Durbe’s shoulder and grabbed him roughly by the chin, forcing the lord to look at him. He held up his other arm and let the light go out, flooding them in darkness. “We all swore a blood oath to you, to serve you. We all committed treason by doing so. We all knew that allying ourselves with you might cost us our lives, and we accepted that, because we believe in you. You’re a ruler, Durbe. You can’t weep over every warrior who dies for you, or you’ll spend your entire life in tears.”

“You say I should lack sympathy?”

“Your sympathy is what made me follow you in the first place. It’s what makes you different from the others. But there is such a thing as too much sympathy.” He prodded Durbe’s chest with his finger. “There’s such a thing as too much heart.”

“Then what do I do?”

It was strange, a lord asking advice from an officer about how to be a good ruler. Then again, Durbe was unlike any lord in the history of the Barian Kingdom, and Mizael unlike any general.

“Grieve, because it’s important to remember those who loved you enough to die for you. But do it in secret. You don’t want them finding your weaknesses.”

Durbe nodded as he looked down at the silhouettes of his fallen warriors. His fallen friends. Was friendship really a weakness? He tried so hard to mask his emotions, to show the others that he was capable of being just like them, but they… they didn’t have friends. They didn’t have people they loved who were counting on them. Not like Durbe did.

And he failed them.

“Will you… just this once… grieve with me?” It was a simple request.

“Yes. Just this once.” Mizael placed his arms around Durbe’s shoulders as Durbe wept into his chest.


	38. The Hidden Truth

Someone was following him.

Not just anyone, but a mage; Vector could feel a tingle in the air, much like he felt when he was near Ilya. But it was a different tingle. Not a slightly burning one, but one that felt like the shock that came from rubbing his socks on the rug and touching people. And… something else, though Vector couldn’t place what the feeling  _was_ , exactly. It pissed him off, not knowing. He didn’t want to get his hands dirty twice in one day’s time, but if Durbe had sent others this way, he might have to. Well, little Durbe would find out what happened soon enough. Vector only wished he could be there to see Durbe’s tears, but alas, he had other things to take care of first.

It had been an effortless task to track Yuma and Astral. They weren’t moving very quickly, and Vector figured they had about eight miles to go before stepping into the Shrine’s ward. That was plenty. He could even arrange for them to rest for the night outside the boundaries so he could put his last plan together.

_I’m brilliant._

But then there was the matter of the pesky mage. He sighed, reaching for his knife. It couldn’t be helped.

His hand barely grazed the hilt when the ground beneath him quaked violently, and he lost his balance. Almost the moment his knees hit the ground, he felt a knife at his own throat.

“I’ll feel you preparing your powers before you have a chance to use them,” a rather high voice warned quietly.

Vector gritted his teeth. The nerve of this guy…! “I’m just a bard, passing th-”

“A bard with the powers of Hell,” the mage said. He didn’t move the knife from Vector’s throat. “A good idea, not to stay in one place for too long. The Barians might kill you.”

 _If you had any idea who I was, you would be begging me for forgiveness,_ Vector thought scathingly, but if this mage didn’t realize he was a Barian, if he just thought he was a harmless mage, then he could play this to his advantage. He adopted Shingetsu’s quivering voice. “R-right! I am ashamed of them… so ashamed… All I want is to make people smile, but-”

The knife relaxed. Vector almost rolled his eyes. For all this mage’s pretended boldness, he was clearly a soft, weak human like the rest of them if he melted at the sound of  _I want to make people happy_.

“Name?”

“Rei Shingetsu.”

The mage repeated the name and stepped back. Vector waited a few seconds before turning to look up at the mage. The hair under his hood was bluntly cropped, and though Vector couldn’t see the back of his head, he was sure the mage’s hair was cut at the same length all the way around his head. “Never heard of you. I’ve been around to quite a few places, too.”

 _Naturally._ Vector repressed a sigh of frustration with difficulty. “I don’t stay in one place for very long.”

“Seems we’re pretty similar, Rei Shingetsu.” The mage prodded Vector’s shoulder with the knife tip and Vector flinched. “Where are you headed?”

Vector had the disadvantage here. His illusionary abilities were powerful, but if this mage could sense them, it would take more energy. More energy this close to Prince Astral would probably be detected and Vector couldn’t risk that, not now. Power over the earth… that was what he had been feeling earlier. This mage commanded the electricity in the air… and the earth. “I got separated from a couple of friends. I’m headed toward the Shrine to-”

“Are they at the Shrine?” The mage relaxed visibly. “Not Barians, then. Good. Who are they?”

Vector didn’t figure that the names  _Yuma Tsukumo_ or  _Ryoga Kamishiro_ would mean anything to this man, but a flicker of recognition crossed his face.

“Captain Kamishiro…” He gave Vector a quick look-over before pulling Vector to his feet by the back of his robes. The knife prodded into Vector’s back. “Get walking. I have some things to ask the captain.”

He supposed he had no choice; it had been foolish to let his guard down against this human. As they walked, Vector kept his hands from clenching. Rei Shingetsu was scared. He had to keep playing it up. “What’s your name?”

The mage didn’t speak for about thirty yards. Vector couldn’t resist shrugging in irritation before the mage spoke.

“Takashi.”

Vector had heard of him. Takashi Todoroki was one of the few still-living human mages. In fact, it had been Vector who signed the order to kill all the mages in the Astral Kingdom, and Takashi was at the top of his list.

It couldn’t be helped. He would have to dispose of this mage later, but for now, it looked like Astral and Yuma were about to have a unique addition to their travelling party.

—-

“That bastard took the rest of the squirrel with him. Back to his palace. Where he’ll be fed and pampered and hopefully bathed.”

Rio rolled her eyes. They had reached the Shrine a few hours ago and Ryoga complained incessantly about how sick with hunger he was and how  _Lord Kaito_ hadn’t thought to give up his rations before disappearing but  _thank the gods he’s gone because his clothes smelled horrific_  – not that Ryoga’s were any better – and Rio found that the only thing she sympathized with was the fact that she was also feeling queasy from lack of food. “You’re the man. Go hunt us something.”

“I’m too hungry.” Her brother rested his head on the kitchen table. “There should a year-old open bottle of gin in the cabinet. Can you get it for me?”

 _That’s disgusting._ “Now you’re acting like a five year old again.”

Ryoga stuck out his tongue.  _Aren’t you a twenty-four year old man?_

“If I go find us some food at the base of the hill will you at least go bathe yourself?” She and Kotori had bathed almost immediately; the water was tepid at best but it was better than nothing. She could at least tolerate how she smelled now. Kotori had gone to bed early and Rio was considering joining her if only to get away from Ryoga’s irritability.

He grumbled something that sounded like  _Kaito gets a hot bath and a hot meal and a warm bed and we get cold baths and no food and lumpy mattresses_  and Rio contemplated telling him that Yuma would be jealous that he was directing all his thoughts toward  _Kaito Tenjo_  but she cared for Yuma too much to say something like that out loud. He didn’t move.

Maybe mentioning Yuma  _would_ motivate him. “I’m sure Yuma and Prince Astral and the others will be here before too long. At least have the decency to wash yourself for them.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Ryoga, go take a goddamn bath.”

“No, I mean it.” He pushed himself away from the table. “Who knows what happened to them, Rio? What if-”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

He fell silent and bowed his head. His hands clasped in his lap. “Rio… Why are we doing this?”

Rio leaned back in her chair, resting her head against the back. Her stomach clenched, though whether it was from hunger or from sorrow, she couldn’t decide. “Why are we doing what?”

“Any of this.” He flapped a shaky hand around. “Fighting them. Our village… Rio, they’re gone and we can’t…” He rubbed furiously at his eyes. “We can’t save it, can we?”

She had been trying to tell him that very thing for years. Mara had thought otherwise. She and Ryoga had mutually agreed from the time they were young teens that they would be married. But things didn’t turn out that way for either of them. “Ryoga, even if Mara had lived and your children born, you couldn’t have saved the race. Our race was doomed from the moment that seal was broken.”

“Who would have done it, Rio?” He ran his hand through his stringy hair. His eyes filled with tears at the mention of Mara. “Why would one of those people we loved and trusted betray our race?”

“I don’t know the answer to that, Ryoga.” She forced herself to stand and bent next to her brother, kissing him on the forehead. “You should get some rest. I’ll go find something to eat.”

“How long do we wait?” her brother called weakly after her. “A week? Two? How long until we have nothing left to fight for?”

She paused by the doorway. Yuma and Astral… Ryoga loved them both more than anything, aside from her. He would blame himself if something happened to them. He would struggle to find a meaning to live. And that would shatter Rio’s will, too. “You’ve never given up on Yuma before, Ryoga. Don’t start now.”

—-

Dreams came rarely to him, but they were more frequent lately; he ran through a black labyrinth, hearing voices – cries for help, cries for  _justice_  – and sometimes the voices sounded like his own. Sometimes they sounded like his brother’s. Sometimes he heard Alit or Gilag or Mizael, and they called to him for help, cursed his name, and Durbe would reach a dead end, beating fruitlessly at the walls, crying back for them, making empty promises and vows to save them.

He couldn’t save them; he could never have saved them.

They never made sense to him before, these dreams. But now they did.

 _You’ve lost control_. The voice echoed through the otherwise silent maze. _You’ve lost yourself._

He heard Mizael’s voice somewhere in the distance to his left; he turned and ran down the path, feeling the walls with his hands.

_You will never find your way out, Durbe._

He ignored the voice and called back for Mizael, for his only friend, because his other friends were  _gone_  – he had buried them in the Arclight gardens, had stayed true to his conviction not to show his weakness to the others and waited until he was back in his quarters to let the tears flow again – but he wouldn’t lose Mizael. He wouldn’t.

_Don’t you see it, Durbe?_

A light illuminated the path in front of him, revealing a dead end. He turned. There was a light the way he came from. That must be the way out…

No, but Mizael was the other way, deeper into the maze…

He followed the lit path back to another split and headed into the labyrinth. The light blinked out behind him like a candle being snuffed out, and he stumbled into a wall, into another dead end, along the wall again, and again, and again and again and again-

_You’ve lost sight of your goal._

“Mizael is my friend.” His voice was weak. “It’s not worth it if I lose everyone I love.”

_You have a greater purpose than this, Durbe._

“I don’t want a greater purpose if it means being alone.”

The voice laughed softly again.  _Your fate isn’t your own. It never was._

Durbe woke, sheets tangled around his body. It was dark, but instead of a cold stone floor, he was surrounded by the finest silks and softest pillows in the world. He had never felt comfortable surrounded by them. They had never given him the luxury to sleep.

He tripped over the sheets in his haste to pull himself from the bed. His face was wet again. He would have another headache in the morning from all these tears.

“You’re weak,” he whispered, fumbling in the dark for the door handle. And maybe he was. Maybe Mizael would say the same thing.  _Go back to sleep Durbe. Don’t spend the rest of your life crying over them._

But they were his friends, and it was only natural to feel this grief, wasn’t it? Or had his time studying humans made him  _one_ of them?

He didn’t think about the consequences of wandering the palace halls in the middle of the night by himself. It was dangerous, especially since there were undoubtedly many people in the palace who wanted to see him dead. It was equally dangerous that a lord would find himself knocking gently on his general’s door, or maybe it was stupid, which was exactly what Mizael hissed at him when he opened the door.

“I hope no one saw you,” he muttered, dragging Durbe into the room by the arm before bolting the door behind him. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour?”

“I had another dream.”

He never told Mizael about the labyrinth. It wasn’t a memory, not like his other dreams, filled with smoke and fire and the warm blood of the Dragoons flowing like rivers under his feet. It wasn’t like the demons that haunted his home village, where his brother whispered for  _justice_  amidst dead soul gems that littered the village square. It was cryptic and he was as lost in its meaning as he was in the maze itself.

Mizael closed his eyes for a second before leading Durbe to his bed. Durbe sat on the edge as Mizael pulled up a chair. “What about?”

“A labyrinth.”

“What about it?”

Durbe recounted the dream exactly as it had happened – how he had heard Mizael’s cries from deep within, how he wanted desperately to go to him, how the voice told him that he had lost control of himself – but instead of brushing it off, Mizael rubbed at the corner of his eye.

“I want you to remember something, Durbe.” He leaned forward and locked his hand around Durbe’s wrist. “I am not more important than your goal.”

Of course he was, he always was; from the time he and Mizael had met in that library, from the time their blood mingled together as they made their vows to serve and protect each other, Durbe had never envisioned a future where Mizael was not at his side. “Mizael-”

“No.” Mizael slid from his chair to the bed next to Durbe. “If ever the time comes where you are faced with fulfilling your dreams or protecting me, I want you to promise me that you will fulfill your dreams.”

Did he not understand what he was asking Durbe to do? Durbe hunched over, burying his face in his hands. He had shed so many tears. When would they end? “You know I can’t promise that.”

Mizael wrapped his hands around Durbe’s wrists and pulled Durbe’s hands down so they were looking at each other. “You’ve committed murder and genocide to get where you are,” he said in a low voice, shaking Durbe’s hands for emphasis. “These hands are stained with the blood of those you’ve killed.  _My_ hands are stained from following your orders. Alit and Gilag are dead because they dedicated their lives to you. Will you throw all of that away?”

“Will any of it matter if I have to rule alone?”

He didn’t expect Mizael to hit him; his disbelief outweighed the sting in his face. Even Mizael lowered his hand warily, as though he hadn’t expected to hit Durbe either.

“Did you just strike a lord?”

Mizael clenched his fist. He recovered quickly. “No, I struck a coward. I’m tired of you taking me for granted, Durbe. I’m tired of you not trusting me.”

“I do trust you-”

“No you  _don’t_!” Mizael stood. He rubbed his hand over the markings on his face and turned his back on Durbe. “You kept secrets from me for  _years_ , Durbe! Sometimes I don’t know why I’m doing what you tell me to do, but I do it anyway because-”

Durbe’s breath caught in his throat as he watched Mizael tug at the ends of his hair. He climbed from the bed to Mizael’s side. Mizael’s eyes were closed and his front teeth dug into his bottom lip. “I will do anything to make sure that when I am king, you are there beside me.” He reached up to touch the ornament in Mizael’s hair. He never took it out when in his human body, even when he slept. “Even if I have to continue to bathe my soul in blood.”

Mizael reached for Durbe’s hand and pulled it away from his ornament. “You need to sleep, Durbe.”

“I can’t. I don’t want to dream again.”

“Here.” Mizael led Durbe back to the bed and pushed him gently onto it. “I’ll watch over you while you sleep.”

“Your hands are warm,” Durbe whispered, not letting go of them.

“Yours are cold.”

“Then keep them warm.”

It was desperate, illogical, foolish, just like it had been when they kissed last week, except this was worse because the chance of being found – the chance that Durbe’s presence in Mizael’s bed would be misunderstood – was so much greater. Durbe had always prided himself on his ability to keep his emotions in check, but he wanted so much to feel Mizael’s heartbeat, to know that Mizael was still alive. Mizael would refuse, surely, and Durbe would slip into a restless sleep filled with his fruitless efforts to navigate the labyrinth and when he woke, Mizael wouldn’t be there.

But Mizael climbed onto the bed next to him and wrapped him in his arms and Durbe fell asleep to the rhythm of Mizael’s soft breathing, his quiet heartbeat, and when he woke from a dreamless sleep, Mizael was there.

—-

He didn’t ask Rio what was in the soup. He didn’t really want to know. Whatever it was had a chewy texture that hurt his jaw, but it was better than nothing, so he ate it with no audible complaints. Kotori was too tired to come to dinner, and Ryoga couldn’t blame her, so Rio covered the pot over the dying fire to keep the heat in and joined her brother at the table.

“I think I found something in the entrance hall,” she said conversationally.

“Mm.” Ryoga pulled a tiny bone out of the chunk of meat he was chewing. He’d almost chipped a tooth on it. “I don’t think you shredded the meat very well.”

“One of the torches was slightly out of place, so when I knocked on the wall next to it, it sounded like there was a room there. Might be worth checking out.”

The bone made a good pick for his teeth, Ryoga decided, scraping a tendril of whatever it was out of his back teeth. “The bath water was freezing, by the way.”

Rio rolled her eyes. She had been doing that a lot lately. “Maybe if you hadn’t balked at personal hygiene for so long, it would have been warmer. Are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah, yeah, secret tunnel or something.”

His rudeness earned him a slap upside the head and a trip to the entrance hall to explore the hidden chamber, or tunnel, or whatever it was. He watched with folded arms as Rio knocked on the stone wall. His curiosity got the better of him. “What  _was_ the thing we ate?”

“I don’t know,” she muttered, pushing at the wall experimentally.

“You don’t  _know_  what you skinned and cooked?”

She shot him a nasty look and he shook his head in disbelief. “It was something… fuzzy. Shut up, it’s not important.”

 _Something fuzzy,_  Ryoga mouthed, but Rio was back at work. He wondered if he was just imagining the queasy feeling in his stomach again or if the mysterious fuzzy creature was poisonous.

“Ah!” Rio pushed the torch bracket and the wall slid open, revealing a short stone staircase that led into what looked like a circular room. She stepped back, grinning, and Ryoga sighed loudly before lighting an unused torch and heading down the staircase.

The torchlight danced across inscriptions on the curved stone wall, casting eerie shadows that made the paintings look alive. The twins’ footsteps fell heavily on the floors, casting unnaturally loud echoes throughout the cavern. One inscription was larger than the others, and much older.  _So this is the ward._  Ryoga had always wondered where it was. He felt sicker than ever at the sight of it for some reason.

“Did you know this was here?” Rio’s quiet question reverberated throughout the room.

“No.” Ryoga traced his fingers over a nearby pictograph. “Rio, this is the old language.”

Her footsteps came closer and she peered over his shoulder. He glanced back at her questioningly, and she returned the look.

“These aren’t ancient. They don’t look older than maybe twenty years,” Rio mused. She touched a date scrawled above the first pictograph. “Yes, eighteen years ago.”

“A merging between the Astral and Barian Worlds?” Ryoga frowned at the overlapping symbols. “That can’t be right…”

Rio scanned the room. “It looks like the pictographs tell a story. Look, I think it starts over here.”

Ryoga followed her and held the torchlight up. “’A foolish woman prayed to the gods for a child. When she received no answer, she made the pilgrimage to the Shrine.’”

“What is this?” Rio frowned. “I’ve never heard this story before.”

“Me neither.” Ryoga walked along the wall, reading the inscriptions. “It seems like the start of a story about a miracle birth. You know, the distant soul chosen by the gods to save the world or whatever.”

“Why is she a foolish woman, though?”

Ryoga shrugged and kept reading.

_Along the path there was a man. He asked her what was her aim, and she responded that she was going to pray for a child. ‘What will you offer for a child?’ the man asked, and she replied that she would give anything in order to have the honor of carrying on the Gift. He told her he was sent by the gods and that her devotion to her race would not be in vain. He laid his hand on her belly and the child formed within her._

It sounded more and more like a miracle birth with each picture. But at the same time, there was a prickling sensation running down his back that he couldn’t shake.

_Months later, the woman gave birth to twins._

“There were only three sets of twins born to the village in eighty years,” Rio muttered. She looked back at the date. “We would have been small children when this was written. Do you think… this is about us?”

The feeling of nausea intensified. “I don’t know. If it is… I don’t know if I want to read on.” Dragoon prophecies never ended well, if that was indeed what this was. Rio took his hand and read for him.

_The village was elated and everyone believed the children to be chosen specially by the gods. But for years, they were sick. The mother could not make them well. So she made the journey back to the Shrine, and along the path, there was a Barian._

Ryoga forced down the bile in his throat. The next pictograph was the first one he had read, with the overlapping between two worlds. “No.”

_‘I am the one who blessed you with child,’ the Barian said. ‘They carry my soul and your sin.’ The mother fell to the earth and wept, for her children were sick because-_

“Barians can’t pass into the wards,” Ryoga whispered hollowly.

Rio pressed herself into his chest. She shook violently. “Oh gods, oh  _gods_ , Ryoga, this  _is_  about us.”

“That’s impossible,” he said gently, but as she sobbed into his chest, he felt the truth of it.

How they were so much stronger against Barian weapons than others with Astral powers.

How Rio could control a Barian weapon.

Why they had been sick for so many years, and why they were always sick when they passed through the ward.

They were born of a Barian soul exchange.

He looked at the last pictographs and blinked back the tears stinging the corners of his eyes. Two figures wearing crowns of roses reached up to humanoid creatures descending from the Astral World.

_The gods are merciful. When the Barian children serve the Astral World, they will be granted the choice to cleanse their souls. Should they accept, they will be freed from the bonds of their Fate._


	39. Lineage

Kotori glanced up from the book of scripture she had found on her nightstand. Rio usually shared a room with her brother, but he was in no state of mind to be near. When they had read their origin story, he had slid to the floor under the pictographs and clenched his hair for a long time while Rio rested her head on his shoulder, tears flowing freely over her face.

_How are we going to tell Astral?_

_How am I going to tell Yuma?_

The thought of what their closest friends would think about them if they knew worried Ryoga more than the thought of what would become of their souls. He didn’t understand why they were to suffer for something they had no control over. But Rio knew better. They did have control, and they’d been offered a chance to save their souls for months now. Only, Rio had rejected that offer. She could only pray her brother had not or would not do the same. And how could she tell him that she had damned herself?

“What’s wrong?” Kotori asked quietly, setting the book down. “You’ve been pale and shaky for hours. Are you sick again?”

Yes, she was. But it was something Kotori’s gentle hands could not cure. “It’s nothing.”

Kotori frowned and crossed her arms. “You don’t seem fine, Lady Rio.”

“You haven’t called me Lady Rio since we left the palace.”

“You haven’t been this despondent since we left the palace, either.”

Rio couldn’t help but smile faintly, trailing her fingers over the small holes in the bedsheets. A year of neglect had let a fair share of rodents and insects into the Shrine. They chewed voraciously through the mattresses and sheets. She and Ryoga had decided it would be the best thing to tell Astral what they were, and she knew Ryoga would tell Yuma. She wanted to tell Kotori. Kotori would understand, after all; her oaths as a Healer to serve those who needed her did not stop with humans. And the gods knew that Rio needed Kotori at that moment. She had always been there for Rio, from the day they met. Rio only wished she could have done more to show how much Kotori meant to her.

“Kotori.” Rio stared at the rip in the sheets that she was inadvertently widening. She pulled her hand away. “I… need to tell you something.”

Kotori’s eyes furrowed in confusion but she shifted the book to the bedside table and motioned for Rio to sit next to her. Rio did so, rubbing her hands together. How should she start this? Should she tell Kotori the whole story or just get to the point? The whole story was too painful. It was too painful to think about the obvious solution to who destroyed the seal. Who else in the village would have had a reason to do so than the desperate mother whose children were deathly sick for years, children who suddenly became healthy and strong?

No, it was too painful to tell Kotori that the Dragoon race was dead because their mother had wanted to save her and Ryoga. Had the Barians planned all of it, or was it just a horrible coincidence?

“Our father died when Mother was pregnant with us,” Rio began. It seemed as good a place as any to start. Maybe explaining their mother’s situation would help Rio make sense of it all. “They were both fairly old, at least by Dragoon standards. They tried for years and years to have children. Twenty years. Mother made a pilgrimage every year to the Shrine to pray for a child.”

Kotori nodded slowly. She was doubtless wondering what any of this had to do with anything, or why Rio would be suddenly reminded of it.

“Barren women are – were – a detriment to the clan, see. Mother was ashamed, but Father never left her side, when many would find a new wife instead.”

“That’s terrible,” Kotori murmured. Her hand found Rio’s and squeezed. It was a reassuring gesture. Rio wondered how long that would last. “Was it never the man’s fault? What if he was unable to produce?”

Rio smiled humorlessly. “That’s just the way things were. Women gave birth. They raised the children, taught them the culture and the language, and the men taught the children how to fight, oversaw rituals, things like that.”

“A patriarchal society.”

“Yeah. Strict, too. Every member of the clan was expected to contribute to fulfilling the clan’s purpose, which was to breed a warrior race to defend the Astral Kingdom from the Barians. Two men or two women who were caught romantically together were exiled. Those without the Gift were not taught the language or the religion and were cast out upon adulthood.”

“Gods.”

Rio laughed. “Well, there’s the problem. The gods didn’t exactly discourage it.” She shifted closer to Kotori. “Not everyone liked it. But we were blessed by the gods. Healing, agility, strength – we were bred that way. We showed them our thanks for being chosen.” It wasn’t all bad, she realized. The cycle of rebirth was unique to the Dragoons. Their bodies were recycled but their spirits lived on and found new vessels. She had never feared death before now. What would become of a soul tainted by a Barian? Even before this, she hadn’t found any point in continuing the tradition. Short of reproducing with her own brother, there was no way to rebuild the race and maintain the purity of the Gift. And Ryoga’s heart rested with another man, though Ryoga might to pretend otherwise, and had since even before Mara’s death. She saw the way Ryoga looked at Yuma – the soft smiles that Ryoga never gave another person, the habit Ryoga had of touching the small of Yuma’s back when leading him along, the way he would keep watch during patrols and cast regretful looks at Yuma’s sleeping form. It was hard to fight a lifetime of deeply ingrained beliefs about who it was appropriate to fall in love with. Was it worse now, for a Barian to be in love with a human, than it had been for a Dragoon to be in love with someone of the same sex?

“Mother wanted this honor. To raise a child for the gods. But they ignored her for many, many years, until… a man approached her on her yearly pilgrimage. He said he was an…” Rio’s voice broke. She covered her mouth. “He said he was an envoy. From the Astral World. And he blessed her with child.”

Kotori’s grip slackened as Rio’s shoulders shook. She didn’t stop the tears. “You don’t have to finish, Rio. It’s obviously not something you want to share-”

“I have to!” Rio grabbed Kotori by the wrist and pulled her close. “You deserve to know, Kotori. You’ve always been so good to me.”

“Rio, what… did you do something?”

“No.” Rio closed her eyes and fumbled for Kotori’s gentle grip again. She needed that comfort. She opened her eyes again. “I  _am_ something. That envoy… wasn’t from the Astral World.”

The way Kotori’s eyes widened and lips parted proved that she understood exactly what Rio meant by that. She said it anyway. The finality of the words…  _My soul is part Barian_ …

There was a difference in the way Kotori held her, a difference in the way Kotori stroked her hair and whispered meaningless words in her ear. She was scared. She was probably disgusted and confused. But she held Rio anyway, and Rio held her back, and they cried together.

—-

Astral stood back as Shingetsu threw his arms around Yuma. Yuma was smiling for the first time in a very long time – a genuine smile, a relieved smile – and when they finally separated, Yuma patted Shingetsu’s shoulder cordially.

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I’m glad  _you_  are okay,” Shingetsu murmured, rubbing at his eyes. More tears. He seemed to cry quite a lot, this one. “When the Barians- but you’re alive, and that’s all that matters, right? We’re almost to the Dragoon Shrine, aren’t we?”

Yuma nodded, but his gaze lingered on the hooded man behind Shingetsu. “Who are you?”

When the man didn’t respond, Shingetsu chimed in. “Takashi Todoroki.”

Yuma repeated the name and bit his lip. “I… knew your brother.”

“I know.” The man’s voice was stiff.

“He saved my life, you know.”

“And yet he’s still dead.” Takashi pulled his hood down. His eyes were narrowed. “I’m surprised you’re not, Yuma Tsukumo. I heard you were to be executed.”

Yuma flinched.

“I don’t think this is the place for this,” Astral cut in. “We should make it inside the boundary before nightfall.”

Shingetsu glanced back at the sun, dipping lower by the minute. “I don’t think we can make it more than another mile before sunset.”

He and Yuma exchanged a curious look, one of almost mutual apprehension, before Yuma lowered his gaze. “Yeah, I think it would be okay to stop here for the night. It’s dangerous to keep going in the dark.”

“What if the Barians come back?” Astral pressed. It was only a few miles to safety; why would Yuma want to stop here, in the open?

“I will kill them like they killed my brother,” Takashi said quietly, and now Astral could feel something from him. It was an aura of sorts, a strange tingling.

Yuma shook his head, rubbing his eyes. “Revenge won’t satisfy you. You’ll only hurt your own soul in the end.”

Takashi walked past Yuma and found a level surface to lie on. “There’s a point where the damage is irreparable, Lieutenant Tsukumo.”

Yuma closed his eyes for a long moment. What was he thinking about? Was he thinking about the first time he’d killed, or the Barians he’d killed just a couple of weeks ago? He’d changed so much in the past few months. He was secretive and had a dark look in his face almost constantly. There was definitely something he was keeping a secret. Something that had happened while Astral was unconscious.

Astral didn’t know how far he could trust Yuma anymore, and it broke his heart.

“I’ll take the watch,” Yuma murmured finally, pulling his cloak against his body. “You three rest.”

Astral spread his blanket on the rocky ground and situated himself. It was terribly uncomfortable, but at least it wasn’t as cold as it had been that first night. Besides, he was used to sleeping on the ground now. He watched Yuma gaze at the sunset until the hazy sun was gone and the moon began its nightly trek across the cloudy sky.

—-

“…after all that I had to do,” Anna was complaining loudly as they stormed through the forest.

“It’s not like we’re leaving them behind forever,” Gauche said exasperatedly. “Stop whining about it.”

Droite closed her eyes. They had been at it for the past several hours; Anna brought up at every possible opportunity how angry she was that she had spent so much time bargaining with Tetsuo over the weapons only for the assassins to go and get spotted by the Barians. It didn’t bother Droite nearly as much that they had to leave the weapons behind. After all, they had some of the poison. Gauche was less impressed with it. It had failed to kill General Mizael, or so they’d heard in their short time at the Arena. Incapacitation was better than nothing, though.

“What if they figure out what he’s making?”

“How could they? You said there are only two weapons like it in the world.”

“Made with  _Baria Crystal_? Pretty sure that even if they don’t figure out it’s a weapon to kill Barians, they’ll at least think he’s illegally making Barian weapons.”

“Gauche,” Droite said loudly, rubbing her eyes. “Quit arguing with the child.”

Anna stopped abruptly and spun around, hands on her hips. “ _Child_? I am a twenty-three year old woman,  _thank you very much_.”

Droite was unruffled. “You’re  _acting_  like a child. Stop it and keep moving if we want to make it to the Shrine sometime in the next week.”

For a moment, she was sure Anna would argue. But Anna took a deep breath, blew it out sharply, and turned on her heel. Gauche threw up his hands before following. Cathy alone remained quiet, almost skipping through the forest as they went, with Tetsuo’s old trousers held in place by a length of rope. She was the most interesting of all of their recent travelling partners, because Droite knew literally nothing about her. She knew the Kamishiros were the only survivors of their village’s massacre, that Yuma and Kotori had once lived in the palace and had to flee when Astral’s parents, the king and queen of the Astral Kingdom, were murdered. Even Kaito Tenjo, secretive and rude as he was, was an easier book to read than Cathy. Who was she? Who were her parents?

“Cathy,” Droite murmured, “why are you travelling with these people?”

The girl tilted her head and twisted her face in thought. “They’re nice to me.”

“Is that it?” Droite pressed. “How old are you?”

Cathy frowned. “How… old?”

“How many years have you been alive?”

“I don’t know.” Cathy shrugged and started skipping ahead, slower this time. “My mommy and daddy are gone. It’s lonely in the mountains without them. Kotori and Astral and Yuma are all nice to me, so I’m going with them.”

Gone? For most of her life, Droite had lived in the Heartland Kingdom. The king’s sadistic arena games were nothing new to her, and she was somewhat desensitized to it by now. But there were a couple of wilders from the mountains that he forced to participate for years, more animal than human after being starved and beaten and tortured for so long. Was it possible…? “Cathy, where did your parents go?”

“Men took them.” Cathy stopped and stared up at the sky. “In the middle of the night. They hunted us. And I ran and ran because my mommy told me to run. I hid in the rocks and they didn’t find me. But my mommy and daddy didn’t find me either. And I didn’t find them.”

Her voice held no anger or malice or hint of desiring revenge. She looked almost resigned, as if it were a natural part of life to have your loved ones hunted down and murdered. Maybe, for Cathy, it was. “I’m sorry.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Cathy shook her head and moved on again. “If you didn’t do it, you don’t need to be sorry. What do you have to be sorry for?”

As they headed into the foothills, Droite couldn’t tell Cathy that a couple of her people were still alive, perhaps even her parents, but that they would be better off dead in their state.

—-

They were not high on the mountain, but the spring air was still cold, and worse, it seemed ready to storm. Being exposed to the elements like this made Yuma uneasy; every shadow flying overhead and every soft noise from the forest below made him tense. But he had no choice. Shingetsu could go no further and Yuma wouldn’t expose him as a Barian. Shingetsu had saved his life, and Astral’s. But if Astral knew how much Yuma trusted a Barian, Astral would be furious.

“Yuma.”

Yuma jumped slightly at the hand on his shoulder. Shingetsu gave him a regretful smile. “I’m sorry I startled you,” he whispered. “I have to go now.”

“Yeah.” Yuma pulled his cloak tighter. He knew this was going to happen. He’d spent most of the past hour thinking up an excuse for when Astral woke and Shingetsu was gone. “You should hurry in case one of them wakes up.”

Shingetsu nodded and fumbled around in his pocket for something, finally pulling out a tiny pendant dangling from a thin cord. He took Yuma’s hand and pressed the pendant into it. “This is for you. So you don’t forget me.”

Yuma looked down at the Barian crest and his stomach churned. If Astral or Ryoga saw it… “I can’t-”

“Please.” Shingetsu reached up and touched Yuma’s face. Yuma reluctantly looked him in the eyes. “You can hide it but I just don’t want you to forget me. You won’t, will you?”

“Of course not.” Yuma stared at the pendant for a second longer before tucking it in an inner pocket. It was so tiny, yet he could feel its weight as if it were a piece of lead. “Take care, Shingetsu.”

Shingetsu gave Yuma a tiny smile and leaned forward hesitantly. He brushed his lips over Yuma’s cheek, and Yuma’s face burned. It had been very forward, but maybe Yuma wasn’t one to complain about that sort of thing. “You take care too, Yuma.”

He turned and headed down the hill again, and before Yuma knew it, he was gone.

—-

Ilya often felt extremely short. At slightly less than five feet tall, she was the shortest Emperor. By contrast, dark-skinned Pherka was over a foot taller, and Ilya almost had to jog to keep up with her long strides. Though she wore plain tight black pants and boots, a long sleeved white shirt, and a vest, her neck, wrists, and ears were adorned with solid silver jewelry that jingled with each step she took.

They were returning to Heartland palace from their meeting with the city merchants. They were a sullen bunch of wealthy old men, none of whom liked being told by women – Barian women, nonetheless – how the city was to be run from then on. It was only thanks to Pherka’s indifferent threat that she would turn a blind eye to Ilya burning the entire dock to the ground that Ilya finally managed to get the merchants to acquiesce.

Heartland City, and by extension, the entire kingdom, was now entirely in Ilya’s hands.

“I would like to check on something at the stadium,” Ilya said breathlessly. It was hard to walk this quickly, especially with the wind picking up. It looked like a storm was on its way.

Pherka arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow and brushed her black hair out of her face. “It’s getting late. Those obnoxious humans wouldn’t shut up and it put us behind as it is.”

“I don’t even think Alasco is here yet,” Ilya said with a shrug. She pushed her ringlets out of her eyes. This wind was getting irritating. “Even if he was, he can wait. It’s not like he’s never kept us waiting before.”

Her companion rolled her eyes ever so slightly. Ilya chose to ignore it, and they continued on in silence.

The guards at the stadium stepped back at their approach. Ilya beckoned to a particularly burly one who was probably four times her weight and nearly as tall as Pherka. He approached slowly, shuffling his feet. “Would you be a dear and tell me where I might find the… animal… people?” What were they called, even?

The guard glanced at Pherka, who glared right back, before heaving a sigh and pointing toward a side entrance. “Through that door, down the stairs. All the way to the bottom. My lady,” he added quickly at the sight of Pherka pursing her lips.

Ilya patted his elbow in appreciation. Why was everyone so damn tall? “Please don’t call me a lady.  _My Lord_  will do.”

“I-um, oh… okay…”

Ilya gave him a tiny curtsy and swept off, Pherka following close behind. The stairway was narrow, with creaky wooden boards that groaned with each step.

“I feel like I’m going to fall through these boards,” Pherka muttered from behind her.

The temptation to burn the entire stadium to the ground was stronger than ever as they reached the lowest level. The stench of rotted, moldy wooden beams, stale food, and body odors overwhelmed them; Ilya covered her face and forced herself to take the slowest breaths possible to avoid breathing it in. She heard Pherka make a gagging sound that was quickly stifled.

“My god,” Pherka hissed. “This is disgusting.”

Ilya didn’t speak. They walked past several cells filled with ragged, emaciated humans – mostly men, but a few women were curled up in the corners as well – who glanced at them with deadened eyes. Some didn’t glance up at all. They didn’t even move.

Sympathy filled Ilya’s chest. She didn’t  _hate_  humans like most of the others did. She found them interesting on occasion. And she had been in their shoes once before, a travelling sideshow freak, forced to do magic tricks for paying customers, human and Barian alike, just as these people were forced to participate in Heartland’s vicious sporting matches.

But she had been fed and cared for as decently as it was possible to be in her situation. These people were starving and neglected. And for what? Because they were unemployed? Drains on society? Heartland disgusted her more and more with each new discovery.

A deafening clang from two feet behind her startled her so badly she stumbled into Pherka. Heart pounding, she turned to see a wild-eyed creature with stringy hair and rotted, pointed teeth reaching through the bars of its cage for her.

“God, what is that?” Pherka sounded alarmed for the first time Ilya could ever recall.

Ilya took a tentative step forward. It hissed at her.

“Don’t get close to it, Ilya!”

“Shh, it’s all right.” Ilya brushed Pherka off and stopped as close to the creature as she could without it being able to touch her. It smelled worse than anything else in this dungeon, and its fingers were clawed and caked with what looked like blood. “This must be what Durbe was telling me about.”

“ _Ilya_ -”

“One of the prince’s travel companions was a member of a clan of wild people on the Astral side of the western mountains. She said men took her parents from her years ago.”

Pherka snorted, which she must have regretted when she had to breathe the smell in again. “I remember this thing now. Heartland had it four years ago or so when we visited, didn’t he?”

“Yes, I believe he did.”

The creature clawed through the bars, but Ilya was barely out of reach and she sighed sorrowfully. What a shame. They could have learned so much from a race of people who could communicate with animals. Yet Heartland turned them into animals instead.

_How sad._

She could almost look past its wild gaze and vicious teeth and see a desperate human underneath the filthy, greasy skin. A desperate human who wanted to be freed from this nightmare.

Who was Ilya to deny it that?

Pherka winced and stepped back from the burning body. Ilya stood and listened to its earsplitting shrieking. She stood and watched its ragged clothes disintegrate, its skin blister and bubble off. She stood and smelled the charred body burn, the smoke in the air, and she stood there as the dead creature slumped over and lay in a heap on the floor.

“You’re better off this way,” Ilya murmured. She turned back to Pherka, who stared at the body with a tight-lipped grimace. “I’m sure Alasco is nearly here by now. Shall we?”

She led the way past the humans, many of whom were now covering their ears and faces, and many of whom had still not moved an inch.

—-

There were three major mountain peaks on the continent, five major rivers, and two forests. The Barian capital sat atop one mountain – unlikely to be the “mountain of the gods” – which left two. One could be along the Heartland-Astral border. Or one could be where the Dragoon Shrine sat. It seemed likely to Kaito that the “mountain of the gods” could refer to the Shrine. The Dragoons were the gods’ chosen warriors, after all.

Which left the river and the garden. There was no way to know which river the legend referred to, nor was there any indication what the gods might consider a “garden.”

It was a very frustrating experience.

“Lord Kaito?”

Kaito rubbed his eyes. “What?”

“It is very late. I think you should get some rest.”

He and Ukyo had been poring over maps and decrees for hours with no success. Truthfully, Kaito’s eyes burned with tiredness, but he knew he didn’t have the time to waste. He had to figure out this legend as soon as possible. “You go. I’ll stay up for a little longer.”

Ukyo gently closed the book sitting in front of Kaito. “My lord, you’re not going to be able to think properly without rest.”

“I’ll go in a little bit.”

The librarian opened his mouth as if to argue, but closed it and sighed instead. “Very well. Is there anything you need from me before I go?”

Kaito brushed his hand over the warm hilt of his sword. He wore it everywhere now. He had no choice; even leaving it in his temporary bedroom down the hall caused his heart to race uncomfortably and his breathing to become ragged.

It was terrifying.

_I hope you’re not assuming my ancestors worked with the Barians._

_It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?_

“Actually, yes.” Kaito snapped a book shut and looked up at the librarian. “Could you bring me the Tenjo family genealogy?”

Ukyo frowned and nodded. Kaito waited impatiently for him to return, tracing his thumb over the engraved dragon on the hilt. It was too much like General Mizael’s, wasn’t it? That was what Yuma had said. Why would he have a sword like Mizael’s?

“Here.”

Kaito pulled the heavy volume closer and opened it. “You don’t happen to know where my great-great-great grandmother was from, do you?”

“Mm.” Ukyo tapped his lips. “Somewhere in the Astral Kingdom, I believe. Why?”

There was virtually nothing in the book about Mata Tenjo. There was a small sketch – she had a hard look in her eyes, high cheekbones, and frizzy hair – but under “place of birth” there was nothing but “Astral Kingdom.” Everyone else had a specific town or city listed, but not her. Just “Astral Kingdom.”

“Do you know anything about her life before she came to Tenjo? Her family name before she married into this line, for instance?”

“I’m afraid not. Nobody really knows much about her life. She just left the Astral Kingdom and came here, and your great-great-great grandfather married her.” Ukyo brushed his hand through his hair. “She must have been some kind of nobility, though. Perhaps there is something over at the Astral Palace.”

Kaito could hardly go there, with Vector running things. “Thank you. You can go.”

“You’re welcome, my lord. Sleep well.”

Kaito nodded and waited for the door to close before tearing the page out of the book and tucking it into his pocket. He would stay for a few more days to make sure Haruto was recovering well, and then it was time to revisit Prince Astral and the Kamishiros at the mountain of the gods.


	40. Vain Conversations

The Arclight throne room door crashed open, echoing against the cavernous marble walls. Two robed figures strode into the crimson carpeted room, having a heated argument in low voices.

“Just send me. My ranged weapons are more advantageous than close physical contact. Out of all of us, I’ve gotten the closest to killing them.”

“I won’t tell you again. I need you here.”

“Alit and Gilag are dead from who knows what, Vector is who knows where, you’re losing control of the Arclights, Kaito would rather give his loyalty to _them_ than to us, and the regular Barian warriors have proven to be little more than a roadblock in their way. Like you said yourself, you’re not a warrior. That leaves me. We know they’re nearby. I can do it, Durbe.”

Durbe stopped abruptly and wheeled on his companion. “I have no doubts in your abilities, Mizael. But like you said, we have no idea what killed Alit and Gilag. I’d rather not…”

Mizael waited as Durbe trailed off. When it became apparent that Durbe wasn’t going to finish his sentence, Mizael prompted him. “You’d rather not what? Kill the half-breeds? Just what is it about them that you’re so intrigued by?”

The lord’s shoulders stiffened. “This has nothing to do with them, Mizael.”

“Then what?” Mizael said impatiently.

Durbe shifted and gazed unseeingly at the window. “I’d rather not lose you. I can’t… lose you.”

It was clear from Mizael’s expression that he didn’t expect Durbe to acknowledge that in a public space. They had woken in one another’s arms the morning before and Mizael hadn’t brought it up since. It was for the best, probably. Durbe was ashamed that he had been so weak as to risk everything to go to Mizael, but being with Mizael had been the greatest comfort he had received since his family was murdered. “I’m flattered.” Mizael kept his tone unruffled.

“I’m being serious,” Durbe snapped, and he was back to his stern self. “You’re the only one left who isn’t looking for an excuse to kill me, Mizael. Gilag and Alit were on my orders before they both ended up dead. If I send you to hunt the Kamishiro twins, I’m worried that whatever got those two will get you, since your loyalty is to me. I can’t handle any more loss, especially not when it concerns someone I care deeply about, and especially since you’ve only now regained your strength.”

There was a short pause while Mizael brushed imaginary dirt from his cloak. Durbe wondered briefly if he had spoken too emotionally for Mizael’s comfort before Mizael replied quietly, “I think it was Vector.”

Durbe’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a serious accusation.”

“Then where is he?” Mizael’s voice dropped slightly, urgently. “He’s been missing for weeks. No one knows where he went. Nobody’s seen him or heard a word from him. Then, a few days ago, both Alit and Gilag – powerful warriors in their own right – were found dead, taken by surprise  _from behind_. Someone they knew attacked them, Durbe. We just have to-“

“Prove it?” a horribly familiar voice rang out from the top of the dais.

The pair spun around and caught sight of a robed figure lounging in the throne chair, legs dangling over the side. Mizael tensed up, but Durbe’s eyes flashed irately as he took a step between the dais and Mizael. “Where the  _hell_ have you been?” How much had he heard?

Vector turned his head and contemplated them. “Busy doing your job for you.”

Durbe narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been sneaking around behind my back? Need I remind you-“

“That the Astral Kingdom is my jurisdiction and as such, all issues pertaining to it and the inhabitants thereof are mine?” Vector cut in smoothly.

It didn’t deter Durbe. “Not when it undermines my work in the Arclight Kingdom. Are you responsible for Alit and Gilag?”

Vector feigned pulling a knife from his chest. “How dare you suggest I am not entirely amenable to your machinations, misguided and ineffective as they are?”

“You bastard-” Mizael took a step toward the dais before Durbe grabbed him by the wrist. Mizael glowered at Durbe, who gave him the slightest shake of the head.

“Not against him,” Durbe breathed.

Mizael’s hand clenched but he relaxed his arm and Durbe released him.

Vector chortled as he swung off the chair and gamboled down the steps like a predatory cat to join the two. “You realize that you not only failed to kill the prince and the Tsukumo man when you had them in your grip, preferring your little science experiments to anything really practical, but you  _let_  them _escape_?”

“Are you accusing me of treason?” Durbe’s voice was full of disgust.

“Well, I did kind of hear something that sounded a lot  _like_  it when I got here,” Vector said with a shrug. “Plotting to overthrow me and raise our astute little Durbie to the throne, Miza?” He winked knowingly at the general.

Durbe’s insides went cold. There was no way Vector could have known about the blood oath, no way he could have known that what he said was true. Could he? He always knew more than he should. But that was impossible… The only way he could have known was if he had been spying on Durbe during their days as young recruits. Vector had been a couple of years ahead of them, but he did like to show up at inopportune times to harass Durbe and Mizael where he could. It may have been an offhanded, joking comment. It must have been.

But Durbe couldn’t shake it off. He would have to be so much more careful now.

Fortunately, Mizael was more furious than anything to notice. “ _Durbe_  thinks of nothing but the well-being of his kingdom,” Mizael spat. “That, I think, is something that  _you_  can hardly claim, you son of-”

Durbe cut Mizael’s furious retort off with a raised hand. “If what Mizael believes is true, I doubt the other Emperors would be very thrilled at you acting on your own without so much as consulting with one of us first, let alone with you attacking and killing loyal Barian warriors that are under another lord’s command.”

Vector rolled his eyes. “Oh, the  _Council_. I’m  _so_  frightened. Do you think they would grant me some leniency if I told them I made more progress tracking down the prince and his cohorts – the ones that  _you_  let escape – in two weeks than you have in two months?”

Mizael let out a low hiss and Durbe shook his head, trying to process this. Had he unknowingly sent Alit and Gilag into Vector’s trap? Was Vector really the one responsible? “Do you not deny attacking Gilag and Alit?”

“I don’t recall saying anything of the sort.”

The two locked eyes, Vector looking pleased with himself and Durbe feeling exhausted.

“And what have you been doing that makes your plans so much more effective than mine?” Durbe said wearily.  _I’ll have you, Vector. If you killed them, I will kill you._

The emperor leaned close. “I can tell you exactly where they are right now and how insecure they all are, and how much Yuma Tsukumo pines after Captain Kamishiro like a sick dog. I can tell you that Prince Astral is slowly beginning to unlock his powers, and the longer we sit around, the more dangerous he is going to become. I can tell you that they’ve recruited a mage, and a moderately powerful one, at that. I can tell you so many things about their personal lives and their histories and their sorrows. It’s all yours, Durbie.”

It sounded too good to be true. And Durbe’s experiences with Vector suggested that it probably was. “And why would you tell me any of this? If you know where they are, why not send an army to kill them? Why waste your time with reconnaissance?”

“Because, dear Durbe, I’m good at manipulation but not quite as good as you at moving the pieces.” He reached into his robes and pulled out a roll of paper. “Instead of risking killing dozens of Barians to fight these scrappy humans and a surprisingly powerful prince with the Astral World’s most destructive powers at his fingertips, I would love to see you prod them around a bit and let them do themselves in. All the pieces are in place. You just have to figure out the best way to move them. But do me a favor this time; once you have the pieces where you want them,  _put an end to them_.”

He waltzed into a portal and disappeared.

Durbe glowered after him for a moment before opening the scroll. It contained a detailed map, annotated in Vector’s surprisingly neat script.

“Well?” Mizael said softly after Durbe had enough time to look at it.

Durbe’s eyes travelled over the map. “They are near the Dragoon Shrine on the Astral-Arclight border.” He shook his head. “Why are they there…? Returning to the Astral Kingdom is a foolish move…”

Mizael studied Durbe’s face. The lord narrowed his eyes in a combination of confusion and deep contemplation. “Is Vector leading you into a trap?”

“Probably,” he mused. “But I didn’t get to where I am by playing it safe.” Durbe held the map closer. There was a tiny note scrawled on the map, five tiny words written near Sargasso.  _Kaito Tenjo chases the Dragon._

 _What are you up to, Vector?_ “Mizael, I think it’s past time we visited Tenjo again.”

“If Haruto is still bedridden-”

“Not for Haruto this time.”

“For what?”

Durbe rolled the map up. “I need you to go to the Tenjo library and have a talk with their librarian about what Kaito has been planning.”

Mizael looked confused but inclined his head. “I hope you can keep ahead of Vector.”

Vector was probably miles ahead of him. “Me too,” Durbe muttered. As Mizael started forward into his portal, Durbe grabbed him by his good shoulder and gazed intently into his eyes as Mizael looked down at him. “Vector didn’t deny killing Alit and Gilag. If we can prove it, we can have him dethroned and probably executed. But please be very, very cautious. I can’t do this without you, Mizael. You’re all I have left.”

Mizael gently pried Durbe’s fingers from his shoulder. “I won’t let Vector surprise me, Durbe. Not when I know what he’s capable of.” He nodded and stepped into the portal.

Durbe watched him disappear and sighed. There was no way Vector would just hand Durbe this map out of the goodness of his nonexistent heart. Vector must want him to act. He just had to figure out exactly what Vector wanted him to do, so he could do the opposite. Unless, of course, Vector wanted him to do just that. He rubbed his temples in frustration. More coffee would help.

He was so tired. He wanted to go to sleep, but he had work to do.

—-

Lying did not come easily to Yuma, especially when it involved lying to Astral and especially when it was clear Astral didn’t believe him. Predictably, Astral wanted to know where Shingetsu was when he woke and the bard was gone. Yuma had focused on lacing his boots and avoided Astral’s gaze as he apologized for falling asleep, and how Shingetsu had slipped off in that time.

“You’re supposed to be my bodyguard,” Astral said icily, and Yuma was ashamed. “What if the Barians had found us again?”

Yuma apologized quietly and led the way up the path. The pendant in his inner pocket felt like an iron weight. He should get rid of it. But Shingetsu had saved his life, and Astral’s, and the least Yuma could do was trust him. He had no idea where Shingetsu would go now, but he couldn’t come with them to the Shrine. Barians couldn’t pass through the ward, after all, and if Shingetsu hadn’t made off in the middle of the night, Astral would wonder why Shingetsu wouldn’t go to the Shrine with them. It was for the best this way.

It took only a couple of hours to make it to the flat part of the mountain the Shrine was built upon. Spruce and aspen trees sprouted from the cold earth in scraggly bunches the closer they got to the summit. It was dry on this side of the mountain, and vegetation was scarce. Still, it was familiar and comforting, and Yuma found himself almost anxiously wondering if Ryoga had made it yet.

 _He kept secrets from you,_  he reminded himself, but then, wasn’t he doing the same?

He needn’t have worried about the Kamishiros. As soon as they came into view of the Shrine’s stone staircase and saw a figure sitting on the topmost step, Yuma heard Rio call into the Shrine for her brother and Kotori. Before Yuma even reached the bottom of the steps, Ryoga barreled down and threw his arms around Yuma’s shoulders.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” Ryoga whispered into Yuma’s hair. His hand gripped the back of Yuma’s cloak as if he didn’t intend ever to let go.

This bizarre display of affection from an otherwise reserved man took Yuma aback. He pushed Ryoga away. He was relieved to see Ryoga and Rio and Kotori as well but his relief gave way to anger. “Why didn’t you tell me that Akari was forced to marry the Arclight brother?”

Ryoga’s hurt and bewildered expression made Yuma feel guilty. The captain’s eyes were red, his face blotched. He’d been crying. About what? “Yuma…” He closed his eyes. “I’m relieved to see you, Prince Astral. We were so worried.”

“Don’t ignore me.” The tightening guilt in Yuma’s chest gave way to a spike of anger. Rio and Kotori stood a few feet behind Ryoga. Both of them had blotchy faces, too. “Why did you keep that from me?”

“Yuma,” Astral said sharply, “you can talk about this later.” He stepped forward and gestured toward Takashi. “Captain, this is Takashi Todoroki.”

Ryoga’s gaze lingered on Yuma for a moment longer before he turned to the man behind them. “Yes, we’ve met.”

Takashi inclined his head. “I would like very much to speak with you, Captain. But it has been a tiring journey, and I want to rest first. May I?”

“I’ll show you to the rooms,” Rio offered quietly. Her voice was higher than usual. “Prince Astral, would you like to rest as well?”

Yuma felt Astral’s gaze on him for a long moment before Astral agreed and headed off with Kotori and Rio. When they were out of earshot, Yuma looked back at Ryoga. In any other situation, he would have wrapped his arms around Ryoga in relief. He had prayed that his friends were safe, and he hadn’t expected the gods to listen. But he was angry. “Ryoga, I’m glad you’re safe, but I’m still… why did you not tell me my sister was forced into marrying an Arclight?”

Ryoga rubbed his red nose. He stared off to the side. “I was going to-”

“Yeah, right.” Yuma shook his head and stepped away. Ryoga grabbed his hand and pulled him back. “Let go of me, Ryoga.”

“Not until you listen to me, Yuma. I’ve been waiting too long to see you.”

“You lied to me.”

“You weren’t in a good frame of mind. You’d been tortured-”

Yuma laughed. “ _He needs to know now so he can move on quickly._ Remember when you said that? When I didn’t think we should tell Astral about his parents?”

Ryoga bit his lip, his gaze dropping to the ground. His eyes filled with tears and Yuma ignored the nagging guilt again. He had every right to be angry with Ryoga. Ryoga had no right to cry. “Yuma,” he said softly, dragging the back of his hand across his face, “I have something I need to tell you.”

“It’s a bit late to tell me you’re sorry.”

“It’s not about this.” His voice was barely audible.

“Then what?”

“I-” Ryoga exhaled shakily and shook his head. “Can we… go inside?” His hand fumbled for Yuma’s. Yuma pulled his hand free. After all this, after telling Yuma they shouldn’t show this type of affection, Ryoga had the nerve to seek Yuma’s comfort?

“Fine.”

Ryoga’s mouth trembled and he took several shaky breaths before nodding. “I just hope… you don’t hate me too much for what I have to tell you.”

—-

When they docked at the port in Heartland, Akari didn’t think they would be there more than a night. Still, she was glad to be off the ship, even if she couldn’t move her legs properly. The more distance she could put between herself and Alasco, the better. Or so she thought, until two women approached the ship and greeted the lord unenthusiastically.

Ilya and Pherka, two of the other Barian Emperors. Akari had now met five of the seven. Incredible how just three months ago, she was a bookbinder in a small village a hundred miles away and now she was the future queen of the largest kingdom on the continent, forced to dine with monsters in a kingdom that had, until two days ago, been free from their control.

The only kingdom left now was Tenjo. There was no way Tenjo would last more than another week.

“Wine?” Chris offered. They were in a small tavern on the docks. It didn’t seem like a safe place for three of the most powerful Barians in the world to dine – or an appropriate place for royalty to dine, for that matter – but, aside from Pherka’s stiff posture, no one else seemed bothered.

“No thank you,” Ilya said, sighing breathily. “I’ve quite lost my taste for wine lately, I think.”

Alasco took his goblet and drained it in one swallow. “You’re missing out.”

“I’m sure I am,” Ilya murmured into her water.

“Stuffed mushroom?” Alasco offered Pherka.

“It’s a fungus,” Pherka said impassively, and Alasco rolled his eyes and set the plate back on the table.

“My God, you two are unpleasant dining friends today.”

“We’ve had to deal with unpleasant merchants all day,” Ilya said, cutting her chicken into small bites.

“Ah, so how did that go?”

“ _God._ ” Ilya closed her eyes. “It was a nightmare. Old, rich human men are the absolute worst.”

Akari barely touched her food as the emperors conversed. Ilya was animated, with dramatic hand motions and gestures, as she recounted a conversation she’d had with the merchant board about her proposed economic programs for the city. None of it made any sense to Akari, but Chris watched the proceedings with a slight frown, nodding along on occasion, and shaking his head on others. Pherka sat rigidly in her chair, avoiding the food on the table entirely. Her emotionless face was impossible to read.

“I’m afraid I don’t see how forced low-paying wage labor on the southern islands is a more humane solution to the city’s unemployment issue,” Chris said, sipping at his wine. “Those islands are rife with disease in the summer months.”

“Everyone will have a job, Lord Christopher,” Ilya said, setting down her knife. “And those islands must be cultivated. As long as adequate Healing and clean water are available, there should be no major epidemics.”

“And if there are?”

“It’s no worse than the condition of those people living in crowded, filthy cells thirty feet underground,” Pherka said icily.

Ilya glanced at her companion with a look of mild surprise, and inclined her head. “Rest assured that the people of this city will be better cared for than they were under Lord Heartland’s rule.”

“Where is Lord Heartland?”

All three lords turned to Akari. She hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but she was curious. Had they killed him, the way they’d killed her king and queen? Or had they driven Heartland into madness like they had with – what a bizarre thought – Akari’s father-in-law?

“That’s a good question,” Ilya murmured, staring into her water glass. “I wonder what Mizael ended up doing with him.”

Akari’s stomach clenched. “You monsters.”

“Be polite now, Lady Akari,” Alasco warned. He picked up another stuffed mushroom. “Your father wouldn’t want you to be rude during a friendly meal between friends.”

She almost knocked over her wine glass as she stood and made to lunge across the table. “You son of a bitch-”

Chris grabbed her hand and pulled her back. Her free hand gripped her fork. “Don’t.”

“Let go, Chris.”

“Sit down.”

“Good to see that the future of Arclight is in such stable hands,” Pherka muttered.

“Did you kill Lord Heartland?” Akari’s voice shook, though whether from fear or anger, not even she knew. She lowered herself into the chair.

“No.” Ilya tilted her head at Akari. Her golden ringlets bounced. “He’s probably on his way to Baria for his crimes.”

“He’ll be dead then, probably,” Pherka said indifferently. “It’s not a huge loss, really.”

Akari’s hands shook under the table as the lords resumed their conversation. None of them seemed bothered by the fact that they had kidnapped a king, or that they were sending him to his death in Baria.

“Steady breaths,” Chris whispered in her ear. “Just take steady breaths and keep your eyes straight ahead.”

She forced herself to breathe slowly. It was difficult, when she sat so close to three Barian lords and couldn’t do a damn thing to stop them from hurting anyone else.

—-

Yuma sat on the edge of Ryoga’s bed as Ryoga closed the door and leaned his head against it. They hadn’t spoken a word since heading up to the Shrine together, but they would have to talk now.

“What would you have done if I had told you the Barians forced your sister to marry the Arclight brother?” Ryoga asked softly, turning his head.

“It’s too late to ask me that question now, Ryoga.”

“It’s not.” Ryoga knelt on the floor next to the bed and grabbed Yuma’s hand. Yuma tried to pull away, but Ryoga gripped it with both hands. He was shaking, and close-up, his eyes were swollen. “I’d gone weeks wondering if I’d ever see you again, Yuma. I almost…” He shook his head and laughed bitterly. “I was afraid that you would want to go back and save your sister.”

“Is that wrong?” He was angry again. Ryoga had made the choice for him. “What if it was Rio? Would you have gone back?”

“Yuma, it’s different.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is!” Ryoga reached for Yuma’s other hand before Yuma could react. He squeezed them. “Your sister is safe as long as she’s the heir to the kingdom.”

Safe? She was married to a man who gave his kingdom to the Barians. She and Gran were at the Barians’ mercy. The Barians could use them… to get to Yuma. That had to be their aim this whole time; couldn’t Ryoga see that? They weren’t safe. No one was safe. “You’re assuming the Barians will keep their word and allow continued autonomy in the Arclight Kingdom.” Strange, that Ryoga would even entertain the thought that the Barians would uphold their treaties. “You say it time and time again. You can’t trust a Barian to keep its word.”

Ryoga squeezed his eyes shut. Tears leaked from them. “Yuma… I… I’m going to tell you something.” He swallowed. “I don’t want… for you to hate me.”

Yuma’s chest constricted tightly. “I’m angry but I won’t ever hate you.”

“Do you promise?” Ryoga pulled himself up on the bed next to Yuma and took Yuma’s hand in both of his again.

Desperation. Pain. Loss. Self-hatred. Guilt, regret, wistfulness. Yuma recognized each of these things in Ryoga’s face. He had seen the exact same things every time he looked at himself in a mirror for over a year. “What happened?”

“Do you promise?” It was more urgent.

“Ryoga-”

“Yuma, please!”

 _Do you think I could hate you? You stupid man, I tried to give you my heart and you pushed it back at me._ “Yes, I- Ryoga, why are you-”

Ryoga shook his head. “Rio and I… found something.”

A hidden room, pictographs. A sad story about a desperate, barren woman who only wanted a child. It didn’t make sense at first. But then it started to make sense.  _She gave birth to twins._

Yuma couldn’t move. His limbs were paralyzed. He could barely even breathe. When Ryoga whispered the words  _Barian envoy_ , Yuma didn’t understand them. He sat on the bed, gazing unseeingly at the wall as Ryoga’s shoulders shook.

“It’s the only reason we exist, Yuma,” he choked out. “And because we… we…”

He broke down again, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes. Yuma wanted to take Ryoga’s hand, to wrap Ryoga in a tight embrace. But he was still numb. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.

_Not Ryoga._

Ryoga dragged his hand over his face, leaving behind a smear of mucus and tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

After everything they’d been through together… after all Yuma had done for Ryoga, and Ryoga for Yuma…

Ryoga spoke often of Fate, of how they were pieces on a cruel game board. But not even Yuma could understand how the gods would allow the last of the Dragoons to dedicate their lives to destroying the Barians who destroyed their village and their people, only to reveal in the end that those Dragoons were the very things they despised.

Tears obstructed Yuma’s vision. He shook his head. “Me too.” He finally convinced his legs to move and stood.

“Yuma.”

He looked back at his captain. He looked ten years younger, with a look of abandonment on his face, with his hair plastered to the tears and mucus on his cheeks. “Yeah?”

“Mara was the last Dragoon.”

Yuma turned away and rested his hand on the doorknob. The implication was clear to Yuma. A week before, he would have welcomed Ryoga’s admission. He would have welcomed it with all his heart, because he had always wanted to hear it. Maybe he’d known for a few weeks now, but Ryoga wouldn’t let it happen. He had duties to his race. That was his reason.

“I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” Ryoga smiled at the stone floor. A few teardrops splattered on it. “I always did have… bad timing…” He closed his eyes again and covered his face.

Yuma had always hoped that Ryoga would return his feelings, but he never thought this would be way it would happen. 


	41. The Last of the Dragoons

For two days, Yuma wouldn’t even stay in the same room as Ryoga. He spent much of the day outside, sitting on the steps. Sometimes he would go for lengthy walks in the bitter wind and come back with his face and hands red from the cold. Kotori wondered if Ryoga had told Yuma the same thing that Rio had told her. She didn’t want to ask, in case he hadn’t. It wasn’t even her place to ask, or to judge. But Yuma wouldn’t eat, and according to Astral, he barely slept. He was going to end up hurting himself.

“Yuma.”

She gripped her cloak tightly against the ferocious wind. It was much too cold to be outside, yet here Yuma was, without his own cloak. He didn’t move.

“You’re going to get sick.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” She bent down and gripped his elbow. When she tried to tug him to his feet, he remained firmly planted. She gritted her teeth. “Yuma, what happened?”

She was sure he wasn’t going to answer, and for a long minute, he didn’t. She contemplated grabbing him by the back of the shirt and dragging him out of the cold by force, but just as she reached for him, he let out a quiet laugh.

“Has someone you admired and trusted ever told you something so terrible that you don’t know if you can look at them the same way anymore?”

“Yuma…” Kotori closed her eyes. Rio. Rio had… but it wasn’t Rio’s fault. It wasn’t Rio’s fault, it wasn’t Ryoga’s, and yet… Kotori understood. She and Rio had been friends for ten years, much longer than Yuma had even known Ryoga. She sat next to Yuma, wrapping her cloak tighter around her body. It didn’t stop the wind from cutting through. Just before she came outside, Kotori had met Rio in the hall. Rio had given her a kiss on the cheek and a gentle hug.  _Thank you for always being there for me, Kotori_. “He’s the same person he always was, Yuma. They both are.”

He shook his head, a sad smile on his face. “Did he tell you?”

“Rio did.” Ryoga had told Astral. Kotori could tell by the way Astral stared into his soup at mealtime and kept gripping his key every time he saw either of the Kamishiros passing in the halls. The only person who didn’t seem to know was Takashi; then again, Takashi and Ryoga had conversed about something in quiet voices – a revolution, an uprising,  _fighting back_  – but the whole thing was so terrifying to Kotori that she tried to ignore it. How much good would fighting back do them at this point, anyway? When Heartland and Tenjo were the only kingdoms still free from Barian control?

“I wish he hadn’t told me,” Yuma said suddenly. “I can’t stay mad at him for long about my sister. I would have forgiven him.”

Kotori slid a hand out from under her cloak and rested it on Yuma’s. His skin was freezing and he shivered slightly in the wind. “He didn’t tell you about Akari because he was worried about losing you again.” Ryoga had admitted as much to Kaito. Kotori decided to omit the fact that Akari had been forced into swearing a blood oath to Christopher Arclight. Yuma didn’t need that, on top of everything else. Not now. “As for him being… you know…”  _A Barian_ , but she couldn’t say the word. “He didn’t know until a few days ago. It isn’t his fault. And he told you right away. Because he trusts you, Yuma.”

Yuma brushed a few tears from his eye with his free hand and sniffed. “Whatever his intentions, he lied to me about Akari.” He finally turned to look at her. The desperate, heartbroken look on his face was all too familiar. He’d worn the same look the morning his squad had died. “What else has he lied to me about?”

She let him rest his head on her shoulder and sat in the cold with him until the sun went down.

—-

When Mizael practically ran into the library with a small book clenched in his hands, Durbe knew he must have discovered something extraordinary. His human face shone with excitement, from his wide blue eyes to the unusually sincere smile gracing his lips. Durbe returned the smile as Mizael stopped in front of the desk Durbe permanently occupied.

“This is what I’ve been searching for my entire life,” Mizael breathed, setting the book on the desk. “It’s the complete legend.”

Durbe’s smile gave way to confusion. He reached for the book. “Complete legend? What do you mean?”

“There are three parts.” Mizael opened the book for Durbe. “See? One is our legend, but there’s one for the Astral language. And the third…”

Durbe put on his glasses and peered down. An untidy, yet extremely familiar scrawl greeted him. He and Mizael both knew whose writing this was.

“Did Kaito have this?” He peered up at Mizael over his glasses.

Mizael nodded. “We have him now, Durbe. This is proof that Kaito Tenjo has contact with the Kamishiros.”

 _And maybe he can lead us to them._  It might be too much to hope that Vector had given him the correct whereabouts of Yuma and Prince Astral. If they _were_ at the Shrine, there was nothing to be done.

“How much of this has Kaito deciphered?” Durbe flipped through the pages.

“Not much, if the librarian is to be believed.”

Durbe lifted an eyebrow. “Is he?”

Mizael shrugged one shoulder and glanced away.  _Ah._

“Well.” Durbe closed the book. “I think asking the librarian to elaborate a bit more on this journal would be helpful, don’t you?”

“I suppose.” Mizael’s excitement was fading fast. He looked almost reluctant, with his eyes narrowed contemplatively and his tongue sliding along his lips.

“Mizael.” Durbe walked around the desk and gripped Mizael’s hand tightly. Mizael looked down, face tinged with pink. “I know you’re thrilled at the prospect of discovering more about the Dragon, but we have to be cautious from now on. We don’t know where this came from, or how, or when. It could be part of Vector’s trap.”

“I know.” Mizael’s voice was short, and he turned away. Durbe let their hands slip free. “I hate being so paranoid that Vector’s setting us up all the time, Durbe.”

“That makes two of us,” Durbe murmured. He sat on the edge of the desk, turning the book over in his hands. It looked fairly old; at least fifteen years. Maybe more. Surely Vector didn’t have the foresight to plan this far ahead. It was before Durbe had even become a lord. He and Mizael were low-ranking officers in some remote post in the borderlands fifteen years ago.

It frustrated him how much Vector knew that he didn’t.

“How much do you think Kaito would tell us?” Durbe asked softly.

Mizael snorted and leaned against the desk next to Durbe. “I doubt asking nicely would work.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Durbe set the book between them. “What would he do to keep his brother safe?”

He didn’t need to turn his head to know that Mizael had closed his eyes; he heard the frustrated sigh clearly enough to know how his general felt about it. “Fine. We should get it over with, then.” He stood. “Haruto Tenjo is awake now.”

Durbe nodded absently. Tearing two brothers apart… he knew what it was like.  _They call us monsters._

_Is that what we are?_

—-

Lieutenant Okudaira watched the Barian lords converse from his seat by the door. Ilya had insisted that he stay in the same room as her in case something happened –  _be a dear and keep me safe, would you?_  she had simpered – but under the table, he clenched a coded note in his fist.

_9 clicks. Moon shadow, docks. Dine alone._

It was quarter to nine, and it was at least a twenty minute walk to the other side of the docks. He could choose to ignore the note. He was already late, and he knew how much they hated being kept waiting. But he had seen the powers at Lord Ilya’s command. Was it worth it?

_Dine alone._

He shoved the paper into his mouth and chewed it as quickly as he could. With a grimace, he swallowed it. He couldn’t let the Barians find out he’d been contacted. It was the most effective way to hide his tracks.

“If she asks, tell her I stepped out for some air,” he whispered to the innkeeper, and he slipped out the door.

He pulled his hood over his face. It was humiliating, sneaking around his own city like a common criminal. But he had no choice. The Barians couldn’t know he was meeting with people in private. Especially not these kinds of people.

“You’re ten minutes late.”

“ _You_  should try sneaking out when the Barians are sitting fifteen feet away,” he replied irritably, pulling off his hood. He glanced warily around the cramped ship cabin. The  _Shark Knight_ was an impressive ship from the outside, but the captain’s quarters were woefully small. “Make it quick, Yamikawa.”

“Fine.” The pirate tossed a small bundle at him. “Have you heard that the prince of the Astral Kingdom is still alive?”

He’d heard rumors, even from Lord Heartland, but he’d thought they were ridiculous. “Is it confirmed, then?”

“Very much.” Yamikawa gestured for him to unwrap the bundle. Inside was a small, reddish crystal.

“Is this-” Fuya nearly dropped it. “Are you insane? I’m a Barian lord’s bodyguard! She’ll sense it if I get within half a mile of her.”

“Relax.” Yamikawa sat back in his chair. “It’s not a Baria crystal, just a chunk of corundum. Perfectly normal rock.”

Fuya turned it over in his hands. He couldn’t feel anything from it, of course, but he couldn’t feel anything from actual Baria crystal either. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“In the Wyvern Forest, there’s a blacksmith who fashions lovely weapons. Take it to him. He’ll help you find Prince Astral.”

This was all too absurd. What did this rock have to do with anything? “And why would I want to ally myself with the losing side?”

Yamikawa reached up, pulling a wickedly sharp blade from the shelf above him. He stroked it gently. “Because, unlike Lord Heartland, there are some of us who have an actual plan for killing the Seven Barian Emperors.”

—-

Ryoga knelt next to her with a heavy sigh. She tore her eyes from the pictographs and glanced at him. “Did you give it to him?” She had encouraged Ryoga to return Yuma’s sword to him in the hopes that it would ease the tension. Apparently it didn’t work after all, judging by the sorrow in his expression.

“Yeah.” His eyes were red, but there were no tear streaks on his face. He must have cried himself dry. “He didn’t ask where I got it, or even look at me. Just took it and walked away.”

He hadn’t looked this helpless in years. She took his hand. “He’s in shock, Ryoga.”

Ryoga laughed hoarsely. “He’s not the only one, Rio.”

They had both spent long periods of time in this room, trying to make sense of things. They’d prayed, tried to dream, tried to call the envoys back, but nothing worked. Rio hadn’t expected it to work for her. She had, after all, rejected hers outright.

“You still have those dreams, right?” she asked quietly.

“With the monster?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes. Not as much anymore.” Even in the dim light, she could make out the flush of color on his face. A week ago, she would have teased him for it –  _what kinds of dreams are you embarrassed about, dear brother?_ – but now… she was almost relieved. If he was having normal dreams instead of constant nightmares and cryptic visions, then maybe he would get over it sooner.

“Did you… accept it?”

“I didn’t know what it wanted from me, so I never answered.”

“I see.”

“Did you?”

She laced their fingers and gave the ground a half-smile. Once a week, every Dragoon in the village would gather to listen to the elders give sermons. Sometimes they lasted for hours. Rio always hated it, because she would be constantly hungry and the ground was uncomfortable. But their mother insisted that they listen. Every week, one of the themes was always the same. “ _The Dragoon exists to protect his Creators._ ”

Ryoga’s eyes twitched in confusion. “What does that have to do with-”

“That’s why they created our race, Ryoga. To serve them unconditionally.”

It was all so clear now.

“Our race is completely gone, Rio. We served them, but what did they do for us? Nothing.”

“We do as they ask because that’s why we were created. What good is a tool that won’t do as it was created to do?”

“Rio, we’re not tools, we’re human beings-”

He froze.

No, they weren’t humans. Their mother was a Dragoon. Their father – their true father – was a Barian. An abominable combination. Filthy half-breeds? If only Kaito knew how right he had been all along.

“The gods asked us to accept these envoys. They offered us the chance to save our souls.”

“Then… then we can accept it. They may not give half a collective damn about us most of the time, but at least they’re merciful enough not to condemn us for our mother’s sin.”

Rio smiled before pulling her hand away and rising. She thought she would feel more terror. She thought her heart would pound, her hands would sweat, that she would try to talk herself out of this. But she didn’t feel anything. Finality was better than uncertainty, wasn’t it? “Free yourself from the bonds of your Fate, Ryoga.”

“Wh… Rio…?”

She stared at the pictographs. Two children, standing away from the other with their hands outstretched. A crown of roses. Purity.

“I figured it out, Ryoga. The sin that the envoy told me I was guilty of.”

“Rio, what are you talking about?” Ryoga’s voice was high. “We’re not guilty of anything because nothing was our fault. We didn’t know.”

“But they warned us. They said they were sent by the gods. That it was the gods’ will that we should accept them. And I didn’t. That’s my sin, Ryoga. My sin is that I didn’t do what I knew to be the gods’ will.”

Would she be able to reincarnate in the Astral World? Would her soul be damned to Hell? Would she wander a world in between for eternity, not quite human but not quite Barian and not quite deserving to be in either place?

Yes, finality was better than uncertainty. If the gods wouldn’t listen to her now, they would have no choice if…

“Please promise me that you won’t reject your envoy.”

“What are you saying?”

“I rejected mine.” She took a deep breath and turned to him. He still knelt on the stone floor, face shadowed by the flickering torchlight. She didn’t want to look at him, but he deserved that. He deserved to know that she wasn’t afraid to die. “Accept yours, but don’t lose sight of what’s most important to you.” She unsheathed her rapier. “Don’t lose yourself.”

“Rio!”

She held the rapier with shaking hands, tip-first into her abdomen. Ryoga tried to stand, but his legs didn’t seem to want to obey him, and he reached for her, screaming her name.

She swallowed, closed her eyes, and smiled.

—-

Anguished screams filtered through the door, into the violent winds. Yuma lifted his head from Kotori’s shoulder and sat up. “What-”

“That sounds like the captain,” Kotori whispered, and they both scrambled to their feet.

They entered the Shrine together and the screaming became more pronounced. It came from a small, barely noticeable crack in the wall to the left.

“Kotori, he might be hurt somehow.” His heart was pounding. What could have happened? “Go prepare a bed for him in case he needs Healing. Keep Takashi and Astral away; it might be unsafe.”

She nodded, wide-eyed, as he pulled out his sword. “Be careful,” she whispered, giving his arm a gentle squeeze before hurrying off. Yuma made his way to the crack in the door, where Ryoga’s screams had given way to heavy, painful sobs, and descended the short staircase into a circular room.

The light of the single torch was enough to illuminate this tiny room. Ryoga knelt on the ground, his back to the door, cradling his sister in his arms as his sobbing shook his body violently. Her rapier, coated in blood, lay on the ground next to him. Yuma held himself up against the wall as his legs nearly gave out under him. Was she dead? How did this happen?

Ryoga turned his head to the door. Despite his fears, Yuma felt his heart break at the sight of his wide, helpless eyes and tear-stained face.

“I wanted to save her, Yuma.”

Yuma knelt next to Ryoga, who was still clutching Rio tightly against his chest, looking as content as if she were sleeping if not for the gaping wound in her stomach.

“What happened?” Yuma said quietly, fighting back tears of his own. Rio had always been a strong woman, witty and brave and skilled, and he had admired her as a warrior and valued her friendship.

Ryoga looked into Yuma’s eyes despairingly. “You hate me, Yuma. I see it every time you look at me. I can’t blame you. I hate myself.”

Yuma gently stroked Ryoga’s face, brushing away the hair plastering itself to the constant flow of tears. He may be part Barian, but his helplessness tugged at Yuma’s heart. “I don’t  _hate_  you, Ryoga.”

“Do you promise?”

Yuma was dazed. He had walked in on Ryoga clutching his dead sister, and now Ryoga was begging him not to hate him… Did he kill his own sister? “Ryoga, what did you do?”

“Yuma, please promise me that you won’t hate me,” Ryoga whispered desperately.  “No matter what I am.”

“I… I won’t. I told you, I won’t ever hate you. Ryoga, you’re scaring me-”

“She couldn’t do it… she couldn’t live with it… She failed to fulfill her duty and she paid the price for it.”

And it made sense. Why Rio had turned her sword on herself. She had made those oaths. To serve the Astral World unconditionally. To kill every Barian she could.

Even if she was one, too.

He couldn’t speak.

“She… she said the knowledge of what we are was destroying her. You don’t hate me, Yuma. You promised you wouldn’t.” Ryoga’s voice was pitiful, childish.

Yuma reached out a hand again and cupped the back of Ryoga’s head as he gazed into the lifeless azure eyes of a man who had lost everything.

“I don’t break my promises. Now I want you to promise me something,” he whispered. “Promise me you won’t take your own life.”

“It conflicts with my oath to return the Barian race to Hell where it belongs.”

“You’re not a Barian; you’re a Dragoon. It doesn’t hold. Your oath, Ryoga.”

Ryoga closed his eyes and unconsciously stroked his sister’s hair. “As long as you and Lord Astral live, I will not take my own life.”

“Ryoga-“

His captain’s eyes opened again. “If you and Lord Astral die, I will have no one left to live for. Even if it makes me a coward, I won’t be able to live anymore.”

Yuma climbed slowly to his feet. “Then I won’t die. I won’t suffer losing you to your own hands.” He held out his arms. “Let me carry her.”

Ryoga shook his head. “I have to… to perform the death ritual. Even if… even if she won’t… might not find peace in death because of what we are.”

This time, Yuma couldn’t stop the tears from leaking from his eyes. Dragoon ceremonies were sacred to them, and he was an outsider. “I’ll leave, then.”

A hand shot out and gripped his. “No, please… stay with me.”

Yuma turned and slowly lowered himself back to Ryoga’s side, still gripping his hand. 


	42. Forbidden Ritual

They couldn’t tell their father why Thomas had sustained such a severe injury to his face. That would require them to explain that they had gone behind their father’s back to return the sword to Captain Kamishiro. That would land not just Thomas and Mihael but Chris and Akari – perhaps even Kaito; _probably_  even Kaito – in deep trouble. Thomas came up with the lie; they were in the forest, investigating a lead on Prince Astral. That much was a half-truth, at least. But instead of two Dragoons and a wayfaring prince, their attackers were poachers and bandits. Mihael wished he could say that he was surprised at how easily Thomas kept the lie going. But the raw humiliation and resentment etched into every contour on his brother’s face were genuine.

The king sent out an order to search for the men, convinced that they would find them and execute them swiftly. Mihael knew better. So did Thomas.

“That is the last time I am doing that woman a favor.”

Mihael looked up from his seat near the fireplace. Thomas was glaring out the window, one finger tracing the thin scar cut vertically across his eye. The Healing had done little for it. It must have been a Barian weapon the captain used – that would explain why the wound did not Heal correctly – but Mihael couldn’t fathom how a Dragoon would even touch a weapon made from the Baria crystal.

“She’s concerned for her brother,” Mihael murmured. He hated when Thomas got like this. Soon he would begin yelling, and Mihael didn’t have the mentality to deal with that.

“Her brother is a fugitive.” Sure enough, Thomas’s voice rose.

“Only because the Barians say he is. What has he done that-”

Thomas turned from the window, jaw clenched. With his injured eye reflecting the firelight, he looked like a madman. “’Because the Barians say he is’ is a perfectly valid reason, Mihael. Have you forgotten that their law is the law of this land, and the law of every other land on this goddamn continent?”

Mihael looked back at his book and snapped it shut. “Of course I haven’t.”

“Then why are you defending him?”

He weighed his choices. How much could he tell Thomas? Would Thomas go to the Barians, would he go to their father? Or would he agree that something needed to be done?

 _He’s your brother, Mihael_ , he told himself, but it didn’t make him feel particularly reassured. “Under our law, he wouldn’t be a fugitive.”

“It doesn’t fucking  _matter_!”

If there had been something nearby for Thomas to throw, Mihael was sure he would have smashed it through the window. He was surprised that Thomas didn’t put his  _fist_ through the window. “Brother, it would matter if the Barians…” He took a deep breath. It was now or never. “What if their law was no longer the law of the land?”

The color drained from Thomas’s face, leaving the scar stark against his skin. Mihael had his attention now. “Are you… no, surely not.”

“Chris is working on getting information from Lords Vector and Alasco,” Mihael said quietly. He licked his lips as Thomas squeezed his eyes shut. “If we work carefully, we can take our kingdom back and overthrow the Barian Lords.”

—-

Every time Ryoga tried to touch Rio’s body, he would break down, hands pressed into his face to stifle the torrent of tears. Yuma stayed by his side, letting Ryoga lean into his body and cry on him. He held Ryoga around the waist with one arm while his other hand stroked Ryoga’s hair, his face, his shoulder. Ryoga was inconsolable, whimpering unintelligibly and hiccupping into Yuma’s shirt, and Yuma didn’t know what he could have said to ease Ryoga’s pain anyway.  _I’m sorry_?  _Don’t hold it back_? _You’ll see her again_? Empty words, and Ryoga didn’t want or need to hear them. If the only comfort he could offer was his physical presence and his silence, then that was what he would give.

_Kattobing, Ryoga._

What did it even mean anymore?

Kotori was just as inconsolable as the captain, though she had been much more vocal when she saw Rio lying in the chamber. She’d cried so much into Yuma’s shirt that she nearly fainted, and Yuma had to half-drag her limp body back to her chambers. He tucked her in and forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat as he stared at the empty pillow next to Kotori. It would never be filled again.

For his part, Yuma kept his emotions in check. Ryoga and Kotori needed him to be calm. But when he closed the door to the room he shared with Astral, he couldn’t keep his face straight any longer. He closed his eyes, slumped against the door, and clenched his teeth.

“It’s all right to cry, Yuma.” Astral’s voice was gentle. Yuma opened his eyes enough to see through the blurry tears that Astral was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“She was Ryoga’s only f-family.” Yuma cursed his trembling voice. “Kotori’s best friend.”

“She was your friend, too.” Astral still didn’t move. “As well as mine. And you are right to mourn her death.”

How could his voice be so  _calm_ , when Rio was gone and Kotori was in shock and Ryoga had lost the very will to live? How could his voice be so  _calm_ when their homeland no longer belonged to them, that the Barian emperor who murdered his parents now ruled his kingdom? How could his voice be so _calm_ when there were a pathetic handful of them struggling against the powers of Hell itself? How could he be so goddamn  _calm_ when the Kamishiros’ entire existences had been paradoxes, souls born from the very thing they were raised to believe were evil and needed to be eradicated at any cost?

“How can you be so calm where there is no hope?” Yuma whispered, and when he let his body slide to the floor, Astral’s hand finally touched his shoulder. Awkwardly and with a flat palm, at first, as though he didn’t know how to begin comforting Yuma. But then Astral knelt and pulled Yuma’s shoulders closer, and Yuma was glad to have a shoulder  _he_  could cry into.

“All I want…” Yuma whispered, clenching the front of Astral’s robes, “is for everyone to smile again.”

Astral’s jilted hold on Yuma’s shoulder tightened. He was silent for a long while as they sat on the floor together, until Yuma began to drift off. Perhaps Astral thought him asleep, or maybe it just took him a while to bring himself to say it, but in such a soft voice Yuma might have dreamed it, Astral whispered to him. “I wish you would see that all we want is to see  _you_ smile again, too.”

**—-**

Vector looked much too comfortable in his rich purple robes, sitting at the head of the table where only the King should sit. He wasn’t in his human form – his human form was probably terrifying, if his personality was anything to go by – and his plate was empty. To his right, Alasco sat in his human form, piling tiny sausages onto his plate; to his left sat Chris, who stared at the teapot in front of Akari contemptuously. The tea gave off a horrible smell and Akari was fully prepared to tell Vector where he could stick it if he told her to drink it.

She was sick of sharing the table with murderers.

Akari didn’t listen for most of the conversation; Chris tried once to get her to eat something, and when she refused, he didn’t press. But he listened attentively to every word Vector said.

Vector finished updating Alasco on the state of affairs elsewhere in the Empire, and Akari was more stunned than saddened to hear that two of Durbe’s generals had been found dead in the forests of Arclight. Alasco merely shrugged and muttered his regret that “shame it wasn’t Mizael.”

“Ah, well, if all Durbiekins has left in his miserable life is his muffincake Miza-poo, then he’s not much of a threat anymore, is he?” Vector settled back in his chair, propping his elbow on the arm of his chair as he rested his face on his fist.

“I think you underestimate how dangerous  _Miza-poo_  can be at Durbe’s side,” Alasco said, frowning as he sipped his milk. “They’ve gotten away with far too much together.”

“We’ll see how much more they can get away with before Durbie makes a fatal misstep, mm?” Vector turned his gaze toward Akari. “Did you know that your brother’s bestie knew about your little marriage and didn’t tell darling diddy Yuma about it?”

Akari opened her mouth furiously to ask Vector if he knew that the childish nicknames he kept using made her completely incapable of taking him seriously before Chris interjected.

“How do you know this?”

If Vector had a mouth, he’d have been smiling. “I’ve got friends everywhere the sun’s rays shine, Lord Christopher.”

It was a bizarre metaphor, but Vector didn’t take his gaze from Akari. She shuddered involuntarily. “Lady Akari, you look cold. Have some tea.”

“I’d rather just shove the tea kettle up-”

“For the gods’ sakes, Akari,” Chris said exasperatedly. “Can’t we get through one civil meal?”

“Maybe if you stopped making me eat with these  _monsters_ ,” she spat back.

“Drink the damn tea.”

“Make me.”

Vector giggled loudly. “Oh, this is cute. Did you know that marital troubles in the first one hundred days of a marriage is the sign of a healthy partnership?”

“Shut up,” Akari snapped.

Alasco picked his way steadily through his eggs without looking up. “I don’t think you should be threatening a Barian Emperor, Lady Akari.”

Vector stood. “Now, Lady Akari, you needn’t be so rude. I just offered you” – he reached over and grabbed the teapot – “some tea.”

She grimaced at the cup he set in front of her. Outside of the teapot, it smelled even worse, like decaying plants sprinkled with cinnamon. “What did you put in this?”

“Nothing but cinnamon, juniper, mesquite, and myrrh,” Vector said sweetly, and Chris inhaled sharply.

“You’re putting her into a coma.”

“ _What-_ ”

“Not a  _coma_ , Christopher.” Vector tilted his head at her and pulled out a small book. “A deep sleep, so she can pass along a message to the gods in the Astral World.”

A coma, a deep sleep – either way, Akari wasn’t playing this game. “I refuse.”

“You have no choice.”

“Oh? What are you going to do?”

Vector placed his hands on his hips and sighed dramatically. “I know where your brother is.”

Her hands clenched on her dress. Chris reached over and gave them a gentle squeeze. He was bluffing, surely… but he had talked to Yuma, hadn’t he? Unless he was lying about that, too.

“What message?” she whispered.

“The continent belongs to our God,” Vector said with a half-giggle. “What do they plan to do now?”

It seemed an awful lot of inconvenience to pass along a message the gods were already well aware of, but perhaps Vector was set on a response from them, a challenge of sorts. Was he really as insane as he seemed, or was he up to something more?

“I’ll be right here,” Chris whispered as Vector started to read what sounded like a prayer from the book in his hands.

“You’d better be,” she muttered back, and downed the tea in two gulps.

Her eyes drooped closed almost instantly. When she opened them again, she was on her back, staring at a cloudy sky. Underneath her was a painfully uncomfortable rock ledge. Muttering curses – to Vector, to Alasco, to her stupidly useless husband, to her brother, to the gods for dumping her in this situation in the first place – she sat up.

She was sitting on a narrow ledge on a mountain, a sheer drop on either side of her. With the clouds blocking the moon and stars, it was too dark to see too far, but below her, there looked like a river cut through an endless forest. And sitting on the ledge-

“What the hell, Dad?”

She was angry again when he turned to smile - it was with that same smile Yuma used to have; angry that he left them, angry that he trusted a Barian, angry that he let himself be murdered and convinced Yuma to join the Guard and literally broke their mother’s heart so much that it killed her-

And he sat there, the jackass, smiling the same stupid grin that he’d had when he was alive, wearing the same stupid hat and the same stupid beard and that same stupid way he shrugged like an innocent child.

“Hi.” His grin faltered slightly. “I’m kind of surprised you got married before Yuma, to be honest.”

Shoving him off the ledge wouldn’t do any harm, since he was already dead, would it?

As if he had read her mind, he laughed. “I know you want to give me a good shove off the ledge but it wouldn’t work anyway and we don’t really have time.”

“What do you mean, we don’t have-”

She jumped.

He was next to her now, but she hadn’t even seen him move. “The gods know you’re here, but they, um, can’t find you.”

“What are-”

_You have to be kidding me._

“You’re not supposed to be talking to me.”

“Ah, no. No, I’m not. Like I said, they’ll find us eventually.” He sat on a boulder she was sure hadn’t been there five seconds ago. “Listen carefully and don’t ask questions until I’m done.”

She clenched her teeth as he told her of his adventures with Alasco through the Barian Waste; he’d led Alasco to an abandoned village on the edge of the Barian Waste, told him about some plant. Kazuma had stumbled onto a set of depleted Barian soul gems, arranged very particularly.

“That was when I realized that there had been a ritual in this village.”

Akari pulled her arms close to her chest. “What kind of ritual?”

The look in Kazuma’s eyes was no longer one he shared with Yuma. It was dark. Empty. “Someone put the plant into the water supply. It killed the entire village. Their soul gems… arranged that way…” His eyes flickered up. The clouds were moving rapidly across the sky; stars peeked out. “It was a ritual to channel Don Thousand’s powers. I have no doubts that one of the current Emperors is behind it.”

Akari leaned against the rock wall behind her. Her legs didn’t seem to want to support her weight anymore. “Which… which one?” It didn’t matter; the Barian Lords were all plenty terrifying on their own.

“I don’t know.” Kazuma spoke quickly now. “I know many things, but very little of what the Barians are planning.”

“What are the gods going to do about what’s happening?” Akari jabbed a finger at the ground. “The Barians are waltzing right over the continent and the gods aren’t doing one damn thing about it.”

Kazuma grimaced. “They’re almost here.” He took a deep breath. “Akari, tell the Barians that the gods intend Fate to play out, just as they have planned for centuries.”

“But what have they planned?”

“No time,” Kazuma said wearily as the last of the clouds vanished. He grabbed her by the wrist and led her to the side of the ledge. “Pass along a message to Kaito Tenjo.  _The River of the Gods runs deep in Sargasso._ ”

“What are you-”

He pushed her.

Chris’s eyes were the next thing she saw.

“That  _shit-eating jackass_ ,” she hissed as he helped her sit up.

“Well, what did they say?” Vector sat at the end of the table, filing his nails.

“They said ‘fuck you.’”

Vector rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes,  _aside_  from that, I mean.”

“Remember your oath,” Chris breathed in her ear, now helping her to her feet.

She gritted her teeth. “They’re gonna let the Fate they’ve set in motion play itself out.”

“Typical of them,” Alasco said evenly. He was still eating; is that all he did in his human form? “We’ve already undone quite a lot of their, ah, strings of Fate, so it should be interesting to see where they go from here.”

“I’m not feeling well,” Akari said loudly. “I think I’m going to allow my husband to take me up to the guest room.”

Vector giggled again. “Ohh? Well, make sure you get enough sleep, you two.”

Akari waited until she and Chris were out of the room to snort. “Disgusting.”

“I’m insulted.”

“Good.”

Chris made a noise of exasperation. “What did the gods really say?”

“There was… a message…” She looked up at him. “Do you know Kaito Tenjo?”

—-

Rio’s body remained untouched for three days before Ryoga could finally bring himself to finish the ritual. Yuma didn’t want to be there. It wasn’t his place. But Ryoga was so broken, so helpless, that Yuma agreed when Ryoga asked him to be by his side for the ritual. It was the least he could do.

Yuma watched as Ryoga took each piece of Rio’s armor off and polished it vigorously. He offered his help with the task, but Ryoga shook his head and Yuma fell silent again. When he finished, he removed Rio’s clothing. Yuma felt intrusive and averted his gaze as Ryoga took a pot of water and a clean cloth and murmured a prayer in what Yuma recognized as the ancient Dragoon language as he washed her body. When he finished, he placed her armor back on her body, sheathed her rapier, and gently lifted her. Still murmuring, he carried her out of the tiny room, out of the cavern, back outside.

Yuma followed Ryoga’s slow progress down a rough side path until they reached the bottom of the hill. Ryoga approached a small blue pine and placed his sister’s body on the cold ground. He picked up a jagged rock and pounded at the ground with it. Yuma knelt next to him and picked up his own rock. They smiled sadly at one another for a brief moment before they turned to the daunting task of carving out a grave for Rio Kamishiro.

The sun was setting several hours later when Ryoga and Yuma, dripping in cold sweat, stood in a four-foot hole. Ryoga hoisted himself out and picked up his sister’s body. He knelt by the hole and pressed his lips to her forehead.

“Rio Kamishiro, may you find the peace you deserve in your next life,” he whispered. “Find shelter in our Mother’s… in our Mother’s…” He clutched her close to him and allowed the tears to drip on her face. “Find shelter in our Mother’s arms.”

He handed her down to Yuma, who cradled her gently as Ryoga slid back in the hole. Yuma set Rio on the ground as Ryoga stood over her. His eyes lingered on the rapier tied to her waist.

“It took her from me,” he whispered, shaking his head. “But it’s her weapon.” He bit his lip before brushing the hair from her face. “Rio made her choice. I don’t have the right to deny her that.”

As Yuma straightened up next to him, Ryoga took a handful of the soil and sprinkled it in the hole.

“Return to the Earth and be reborn,” he whispered. “Return to be a faithful servant of our blessed kingdom, and serve the Astral World with honor and obedience.”

With that, the only thing left was to fill the hole. It took only a short while, and when they finished, Ryoga bent down and placed a hand on the cold mound of dirt.

“I know I never said it as much as I should have, but… I love you too, Rio,” he whispered, reaching blindly for Yuma’s hand. Yuma gave him a reassuring squeeze and they headed back up the hill, hands still linked. When they reached the top, Ryoga hesitated. “We should rest here a few more days. I just… would like to be left alone for a while.” He shrugged helplessly.

“Sure,” Yuma said softly.

They released their hands and Ryoga headed down one hall to his room as Yuma went back to Astral.

—-

“Don’t hurt my sons-”

Durbe ignored Faker’s pleading protests from the arms of the Barian officer holding him back and walked straight ahead to the infirmary. Everything about him, from the hard glare in his eyes to his set jaw, from his crisp white clothes to the cloak rustling behind him with each step he took to the sword at his waist – he never had a weapon – exuded authority like Mizael had never seen before.

Mizael had never been more certain in his life that he had made the right choice in helping Durbe become the king, even if what they were about to do had grieved Durbe deeply.

He pushed open the door.

Kaito sat on the bedside chair, watching Haruto color with wax pencils. He looked up, annoyance in his face at first, giving way instantly to anger and fury and terror as he reached for his soul sword. “What is the meaning of this?”

Durbe pointed at Haruto, who clenched the pencil in his hand so tightly it snapped in half. “We are here for Lord Haruto.”

“I won’t let you,” Kaito said in a high voice, holding his sword aloft.

A challenge, from the prince with nothing left. Mizael could have killed him fairly easily. Few stood even a chance in swordplay against him. But Kaito knew about the Dragon, so he was needed alive. Mizael drew his own sword.

“Stand down, Lord Kaito,” Durbe said tautly.

Kaito’s mismatched eyes darted between Durbe and Mizael. He still couldn’t get rid of the mark, Mizael thought with satisfaction. That was good. The less other humans trusted him, the less chance he had of setting up some kind of rebellion. “I won’t let you,” he said again, and this time his voice was firmer.

Durbe closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. “Mizael.”

Maybe Kaito was caught unprepared, or maybe he wasn’t as skilled as the rumors Mizael had heard. Either way, he managed to slip behind Kaito and put his sword to his throat before Kaito could do anything more than half-turn to meet him.

“I thought you’d put up more of a fight,” Mizael hissed in his ear. “I’m almost disappointed.”

Kaito let out a stream of vile oaths and curses, but when he tried to pull away, the edge of the blade cut into his neck, and Kaito ceased. All he could do was shake as Durbe wrapped Haruto’s hands together in a solid red chain. All he could do was whimper like a dog as Durbe yanked Haruto from the bed. Haruto struggled – struggled against Durbe’s tight grasp on the back of his shirt, struggled to reach for his brother, whimpered his brother’s name – but Durbe was undeterred. He walked into the hallway, dragging Haruto with him – Faker’s strangled protests joined his sons’ once more – and Mizael pulled his sword away from Kaito’s neck. Gripping the back of Kaito’s collar with a firm hand, Mizael leaned close again.

“This is the price you will pay for your sins.”

He pushed Kaito into another Barian’s grip, but he might as well have left him alone; Kaito slumped in his captor’s hold and when Mizael glanced back before heading into the hall after Durbe, Kaito’s sword lay on the ground as he stared lifelessly at the wall.


	43. Prisoners of Fate

Ryoga floated in the dark water, face to face with the monster again, the same as it had been since the Barians killed Mara and began their conquest of the continent. It was the same suffocating blackness, the same paradoxical feeling of drowning but still being able to breathe. He stared into the same red eyes, gazing back at him with the same hungry expression. It could have been any other night, where he asked the same questions and the monster gave him nothing but the same cryptic answers.

But this time, he wanted answers of a different sort.

“Ryoga Kamishiro. So you know the secret now. Your choice should be simple, Barian Dragoon. Accept me.”

He was tired of that demand. “Is my sister’s soul in Hell?”

The creature tilted its head. “Your sister rejected her emissary.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

It made a noise that might have been a sigh. “Like you, she has no place in the Astral World when her soul carries part of a Barian.”

“Neither of us knew. She didn’t know this was the price she would pay when she rejected it. Are we damned for our ignorance?”

The creature moved closer, cutting through the heavy water as effortlessly as if it were air. “It offered her a choice. It offered to free her from her sin.”

Ryoga laughed wildly. “Her  _sin_? You bastards- you consider this our sin? Our  _existence_? We didn’t  _choose_ to be part Barian!”

“Your sin isn’t only your existence, Ryoga Kamishiro.”

“Being alive isn’t a fucking  _sin_!”

It considered him for a moment, its red eyes boring into him, before it reached out a clawed hand and shoved it through Ryoga’s chest.

Ryoga gasped and looked down in horror at the way its claw pushed through him, close to his heart and lungs, but it didn’t  _hurt_.

“Despite your parentage, you were raised to be a Dragoon,” the creature reminded him. “You are bound by the laws of the Dragoon race. You made oaths to serve without question. To accept the will of the Astral World without reservation. It is their will that you accept me. And yet you refuse it.”

They stared at each other for a long time. Minutes, hours, Ryoga didn’t know because time passed in strange ways in this dream, but finally he looked away and grabbed the creature’s claw. Is that what the gods saw them as? Not as two abominations – not entirely – but as two Dragoons who simply refused to do what they were, in essence,  _created_ to do?

“What are you?” Ryoga whispered.

“I am Shark Drake. I am the one sent by the gods to tear the Barian’s soul from yours. I will redeem you.”

“And… when you  _tear_ the soul from mine. What happens to me?”

Shark Drake’s mouth opened slightly to reveal rows of jagged teeth. Was it _smiling_? “Your soul will be incomplete. I will complete it for you once more.”

Ryoga pulled Shark Drake’s claw from his chest. A small, glowing cavity remained. “You will share my soul?”

“I will share your soul and your body. Be warned; the Barian soul binding process was never meant to be reversed. To do so will be pain beyond any you have ever felt. It may kill you.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. All his efforts to free himself from the bonds of Fate led him straight back into the gods’ hands. And for what? Death?

Maybe it would be better that he were dead.

“Can I save my sister?”

“That is not my decision to make. The gods are the ones with that power.”

“Can I talk to them?”

“My soul is connected to the Astral World. You will be free to travel between the realms in spirit should you choose to bind us.”

Would they listen? Would they grant forgiveness? Had Rio known that this was the price rejecting her emissary would be, she never would have done it. Surely they would see that. “I need… time.”

He couldn’t see Shark Drake’s reaction, but he could hear the sigh again. “Time grows short for you, Ryoga Kamishiro. I expect an answer next time we meet. If you do not, I will assume you have finally rejected me.”

—-

A soft knock at the door pulled Ryoga from his helpless reverie. He didn’t answer; he didn’t want company. It would probably have been a greater service to have turned his sword on himself, despite his promise to Yuma. Rio had been prepared to do so. He understood why, and Rio had never been much for strict duty. But he couldn’t do it; he didn’t deserve to die when he longed for death. Not yet. His sister didn’t give herself up for him to put an end to the unceasing cycle of anguish he was forced to endure day after day. He was meant to fulfill his duty and keep his prince safe and, abominable creature of Hell notwithstanding, he would not break his oaths.

 _Accept me_.

_I will take control of your body._

Was it worth it? Was his sister’s eternal peace, was his, worth living as an empty shell for the rest of his life?

The door opened anyway.

Ryoga lay motionless on the lumpy mattress. Maybe the visitor would leave if they thought him asleep. Light footsteps across the uneven stone floor proved him wrong, but Ryoga still didn’t move. The edge of the bed sank a few inches, and a callused hand brushed his cheek, wiping away a stream of tears he hadn’t noticed he had shed. His stomach clenched and he finally turned. Yuma sat next to him, dressed in a light undershirt and loose-fitting grey pants, soft red eyes lingering a moment too long on the scars covering Ryoga’s bare torso, and a sickening feeling of guilt constricted Ryoga’s chest. The bright, youthful innocence in those eyes was gone, replaced by a solemn gaze of a much older man: a man who had experienced unimaginable pain and inflicted it on others, who had seen death and caused it, who had found love and realized it didn’t matter because it would never happen. It never would, never could, never  _should_.

Or maybe that was himself he saw in Yuma’s eyes.

Yuma leaned down and brushed his lips against Ryoga’s. It was simply that; no force, no longing, no desperation had characterized their first kiss. The innocent gesture caused an explosion of emotions in the recipient’s body, from the tingling in his lips to the numbness in his toes. It was at once more innocent and more tantalizing, more tempting, than before.

Only this time, Ryoga didn’t care that Yuma was a man, now that he knew he could never save a race he didn’t truly belong to.

Yuma pulled back and studied Ryoga’s face. “You’ve been through too much for any person to bear,” he murmured.

“The knowledge of what I am is destroying me.”

 “You told me that Rio said that too. You’re not thinking about doing what you swore you wouldn’t.”

“I’m an offense against nature, Yuma,” he replied in a soft voice. “I shouldn’t exist. You can’t care for me.”

“You are too obsessed with your heritage. You need to forget it and remember who you really are.” Yuma ran a hand along the jagged scar on Ryoga’s abdomen. It seemed so long ago when they left the Astral Palace. “You’re Captain-Commander Ryoga Kamishiro, a selfless and loyal man, one who is as capable of compassion, empathy, and love as any other man. You’re not ready for death.”

Ryoga pulled himself up slowly until he and Yuma were eye level and inches apart. “Are you calling me a coward?”

“Yes,” Yuma replied unflinchingly.

Ryoga considered him for a moment. “You told me to forget about the fact that I’m a hybrid abomination and focus on being a human.”

“You’re no more a monster than I am,” Yuma whispered. “You know what it is to be human.”

“Then help me remember,” Ryoga whispered back.

“Even though I’m a man?”

“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

Yuma pressed his lips more firmly against Ryoga’s, who returned the pressure. It was easier, this time, to find just the right angle as their lips locked together. Yuma’s hands settled on either side of Ryoga’s hips on the bed, and he gently slid Ryoga back to a semi-lying position, propped against the pillows. Ryoga’s hands slid around Yuma’s waist and he let out a shuddering breath as Yuma straddled him, holding himself aloft with his knees and arms. Yuma took advantage of his momentary distraction to slip his tongue into Ryoga’s mouth, but abruptly pulled their lips apart again.

“Oh Ryoga,” he murmured, stroking Ryoga’s jawline with a gentle hand. He looked at the side table, where a bottle of old, vile-tasting gin that Ryoga had found buried in a cabinet lay empty, and Ryoga knew Yuma had tasted the alcohol in his mouth. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Ryoga’s hands tightened on Yuma’s waist in a clear demand for his closeness, his physical contact. “I’ve never been able to get drunk. I drank the whole bottle tonight and I feel as lucid as ever. It must be part of this damn Barian curse, having to cope with it with a permanently clear mind.” He laughed bitterly. “It was disgusting.”

Yuma straightened up. “You need more time. I’ll leave.”

“No.” Ryoga wrapped his arms around Yuma and pulled him down again; he knew what he wanted, and this was it. Yuma’s warm body, his companionship, his soft lips on Ryoga’s, his calloused hands tangled in Ryoga’s hair. If Yuma left, Ryoga would have nothing to get him through the night. “Stay with me. Please.”

 _You’re selfish, Ryoga_ , the guilt – ever present in his heart, ever taunting – reminded him.  _Using your closest friend’s feelings to make you feel better? You know what happens next, and it ends in broken hearts and betrayal._

 _I don’t care_ , he thought desperately.  _He wants this._ I  _want this._

 _I_ need  _this, if only to feel human one last time._

Yuma smiled warmly and leaned his head next to Ryoga’s ear. “You’ve done this before. What was it like?”

Ryoga turned his head, brushing his nose against Yuma’s chin. “There was no love. Only duty.”

“Is there now? Love?”

“Are you scared?”

“I want to make sure that what we’re doing is the right thing. For the right reasons.”

“This  _feels_  right. Isn’t that all that matters?”

Yuma smiled in reply and touched his lips to the hinge of Ryoga’s jaw and trailed them along his jawline, taking pleasure from the soft sigh it stimulated. Ryoga slid his hands from Yuma’s waist to his back, running his hands up Yuma’s shirt over the crisscrossing scars. He worked nimbly to pull the shirt over Yuma’s head and tossed it aside. Ryoga fought back a moan as Yuma closed his mouth over his collarbone, sucking gently at first; without warning, the gentle movement turned into a series of tiny bites that traveled up his collarbone to his shoulder to his neck, and finally back to the sharp edge of his jawline under his ear.

It was impossible to believe that Yuma had never had an intimate relationship before, with the way his fingers slid across Ryoga’s body, paralyzing him, or the way his lips trailed along various parts of Ryoga’s anatomy as he effortlessly separated Ryoga’s pants from his waist while Ryoga struggled to remove Yuma’s. This was what it was to make love, Ryoga realized, as he and Yuma entwined their sweat-covered bodies, hips rolling in sync. Every gesture, every movement, was deliberate, cautious. The caresses were gentle and the look in Yuma’s eyes was unlike anything he had ever seen. Ryoga didn’t understand love, but some instinctive part of him knew that was what this soft, tender look was. As they climaxed, their fingers laced together and their bodies tightened against one another, and Yuma’s body collapsed on top of Ryoga’s in exhaustion.

After what seemed an eternity, Yuma placed his hand to Ryoga’s face and finally managed to choke out a whisper. “Do you feel human now?”

“I’ve never felt it more,” was the haggard reply.

They fell asleep, bodies tangled together, the half-Barian and the servant of the Astral world.

—-

Ryoga’s eyes opened slowly into a dark chamber, lit only by a sliver coming in under the crack in the door from the torchlights in the hallway. There were no windows, so no natural light filtered in, and the oil lamp that had provided him with light the night before had burned out. Had he forgotten to put it out?

The night before. Of course.

He heard Yuma’s soft breathing next to him, facing away. His arm was draped over Yuma’s waist, and his chest pressed against Yuma’s back. One of Yuma’s hands was linked loosely with Ryoga’s. Both of them would need to bathe; the room smelled of fluid that they had fallen asleep in.

Yuma looked so peaceful, and Ryoga could make out a gentle smile gracing his lips. It had been so long since Ryoga had last seen a genuine smile on Yuma’s face.

He should have slipped out of bed and left without waking Yuma. But he needed some semblance of closure in his life and the temptation was  _there,_ so he leaned over the sleeping man for a kiss.

As their lips touched, Yuma’s smile widened and he turned into Ryoga, pulling his hand away and replacing it with the other so it fit more comfortably. Yuma rubbed his thumb over Ryoga’s knuckle and broke the kiss.

“I had hoped it wasn’t a dream,” Yuma whispered.

Ryoga pressed their foreheads together. Guilt filled his chest, clenching his heart like a vice. He loathed this familiar feeling, and he shouldn’t feel  _guilty_ for allowing himself this temporary illusion of happiness. He shouldn’t feel _guilty_  for yearning to feel what it was to be loved. It had been Yuma’s choice to do what they had done last night but Ryoga couldn’t help but feel as though he were responsible for taking every ounce of innocence from Yuma. And what they had done…

“Yuma, do you think… you’ll come to regret this?”

He could feel Yuma’s eyebrows pull together. “How could I regret what my heart has desired for two years?” His voice held a bite of impatience, maybe anger.

 _Two years_. He couldn’t believe Yuma had loved him for so long and kept it a secret. But then, hadn’t he felt the same? Hadn’t he desired Yuma all this time, denying it to himself to save his convoluted sense of honor? Had things been different, had Rio survived and the kingdom not been invaded, he never would have let himself do this. He and Mara would have had their children, raised them, maybe had more children together; it wasn’t much, but it would have been a start in rebuilding their culture. He could have ignored, suppressed, and rejected his feelings for Yuma – feelings that had started over a year and a half ago and had only intensified since Mara’s death – and focused instead on his duty.

But along with Mara died any hope for his race, and any excuses he could and did come up with for denying his love for Yuma. Along with Mara died two children who would have been half-Barian abominations like their father.

“We’re not supposed to be together. We’re different races.” Ryoga trailed his free hand across Yuma’s hipbone, smiling at the way Yuma’s body squirmed at his touch. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out Yuma’s eyes, narrowed in that stubborn, childish way only Yuma could pull off.

Yuma pulled their linked hands to his lips. “Why does that matter? Why should it?”

“It shouldn’t,” he murmured, kissing Yuma’s nose. Gods, but were these little gestures the most wonderful things. They made his heart tremble in ways he had never experienced before. “But what we want and what our destinies want are never the same.”

He felt Yuma’s warm sigh rustle across his neck. “There’s no such thing as destiny.”

“Refusing to believe in something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

“Believing in something doesn’t mean it  _does_.”

Ryoga laughed quietly. “Fair enough.” He lifted his gaze to Yuma’s. It hurt him – killed him – to know what he had to do, and he was afraid. He knew what his answer to Shark Drake would be – he had known all along, hadn’t he – and that terrified him even more. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to get this close to anyone, especially not Yuma. It made his choice that much more difficult, knowing at last what he felt for Yuma, only now he couldn’t act on it again. He wouldn’t feel Yuma’s gentle touch, the feel of his lips, the warmth coursing through his body when Yuma gave him a smile… ever again.

He would fulfill his promise to Rio. And he was going to save her soul.

“Yuma, I… don’t think we should do this again.”

Yuma’s grip tightened. “Are you ashamed?”

”I’m scared. I don’t want your soul to suffer because you shared a Barian’s bed.”

“Aren’t I capable of deciding what I want for myself?”

He was right, but Ryoga had so many other reasons to keep himself distant from Yuma, and Yuma would never accept any of them.

“Let me make you a promise,” he whispered. “When this is all over, when we’ve defeated the Barians and placed Astral back on the throne… if you’ll have me…” His voice trembled, because it was a lie. “I will take you in my arms and kiss you and pull you into my bed, and we can be proper lovers, with no more duty and no more responsibility. It’ll be just us, for as long as we live. We’ll make our own future together.” It was all a lie, a desperate lie to hide the tears of despair pouring from his eyes.

_It may kill you._

Ryoga Kamishiro had no more future.

“I’d like that.” Yuma pulled his hand free and wrapped his arms around his captain, who kissed him back forcefully, desperately; Yuma had tears on his face too – Ryoga tasted them falling to Yuma’s lips as they kissed – and he wondered despairingly if Yuma knew that their idyllic view for the future could never be.

They finally broke apart, and Ryoga brushed Yuma’s wet face one last time – one last painful time; the sorrow overwhelmed him – and pulled himself free of the blankets.

Yuma leaned his head back on his pillow. “Where are you going?”

Ryoga paused at the edge of the bed and glanced back at the lithe figure lying in his bed. The urge to climb under the blankets again and feel Yuma’s warmth and the love he had never felt before  _consumed_ him-

He forced himself to smile instead and began cleaning his body with a cloth from the bedside basin.  If he climbed back in that bed, he would never be able to leave it. “I’m going to go pray.”

“For forgiveness?” Yuma sounded bitter. “For taking a man into your bed?”

“For freedom,” Ryoga said quietly, “from the chains of Fate.”

He dressed and walked to the door. Yuma watched him, a sad glint in the dimness. Ryoga burned to say the words he had meant to say since waking, but they stopped when they reached his tongue. He needed Yuma to know, but…

But they were hollow words, spoken too often with no meaning, and didn’t Yuma know already?

With one last gentle smile for the man he loved, he opened the door and stepped out into the hall, eyes blinded against the torches flickering through the cold stone hallway. He winced and headed down the hall to the hidden chamber, legs trembling more with each step, hands sweating, heart pulsing. The familiar nausea filled him, but this time he couldn’t tell if it was because of the ward against the Barian sharing his soul or because of the love he was about to betray.

A door opened.

Ryoga paused as Astral gazed at him, heterochromatic eyes sweeping curiously over his body. Astral wore loose-fitting light blue nightclothes that served to make his skin look paler than usual, almost glowing in the dancing torchlight.

“Yuma left several hours ago and hasn’t returned,” Astral said conversationally, crossing his arms as he leaned on the door frame. “Was he with you?”

Ryoga flinched at the question but didn’t answer.

The lack of a response seemed to verify Astral’s question. “Did it help?”

“Did  _what_  help?” Ryoga’s voice came out more impatiently than he had intended.

“Being intimate with him.”

It was a simple statement, devoid of bitterness or disapproval. Ryoga couldn’t bring himself to deny it. “It did at first. It helped me forget for the time being, helped me remember that I’m even a little… human.”

“And now?”

Strange how easy it was to tell Astral how he felt. “I feel just as empty as I did before he showed up. At any other time, I would be happy, but I feel like it was a temporary escape from Rio’s death. I regret taking advantage of his feelings like that. I regret it so much and I wish I hadn’t done it.”

_Freedom from the chains of Fate._

What a beautiful lie he had created, when he knew with all his heart that he – and Yuma, as much as Yuma wanted to believe otherwise – was Fate’s eternal prisoner. Shark Drake could try to convince him that he would be freed from the future awaiting him, but in reality it led him straight back into the gods’ hands anyway. They were slaves to it.

Astral tilted his head. “But he’s loved you for so long, and you love him, don’t you?”

How oblivious had Ryoga been to Yuma’s feelings all this time if even Astral knew? “I want to believe I do. But I can’t love him, Astral.”

“Because you’re a half-Barian creature?” Astral’s voice remained surprisingly calm.

_This feels right._

It  _had_  felt right, at least at the time, and he had wanted it for a long time.

“Yeah. Because no one, especially not someone with a heart like his, should love something like me.”

Without another word, Ryoga walked on, leaving his somber prince gazing after him.

—-

“I didn’t expect you for another several hours.”

“I’ve made my choice.”

Shark Drake inclined its head. “What is it?”

Ryoga wet his lips. “Before I tell you, can I ask you something?”

Shark Drake’s chest heaved in what Ryoga took as a reluctant sigh. “Go on, then. And then your answer.”

“Will I still be able to feel and think on my own?”

“If you survive, you may not be strong enough to control your own body. But you will have the power of the gods. You will have influence. Perhaps you can save your sister’s soul from Hell after all.”

Ryoga closed his eyes. The pain of losing Rio weighed heavily on him, but not as heavily as the pain of knowing that she was damned to a hellish existence if he didn’t save her.

So he resigned himself to take on a hellish existence of his own, an existence without the love he had finally found. An existence without control of his own body. Being nothing but a puppet for the Astral World.

“And this will free me.”

“Your life was given you by a Barian. Not even I can change that. But as long as his soul remains in you, you can never ascend.”

“So I must suffer for a sin that wasn’t mine.”

“You have your sins as well, Ryoga Kamishiro. I see them in your heart. I feel your guilt, I see your passions and desires. I will free you from your mother’s sin, but you must atone for your own.”

It wasn’t difficult to figure out exactly which sin Shark Drake was referring to. But Ryoga didn’t consider it a sin.

Yuma wasn’t a sin.

“I accept you. I relinquish…” His voice trembled. He wished he hadn’t thought of Yuma in that moment – Yuma’s smile, Yuma’s gentle hands, Yuma’s kiss, Yuma’s compassion, Yuma’s infinite forgiveness, Yuma’s _friendship_. He had to give him up, and it tore at his heart. He could only pray that Yuma would still love him after this. He could only pray that Yuma would be able to see that Ryoga still loved him too, no matter what Shark Drake did with his body. “I relinquish my body and soul to the Astral World, that I may serve it with honor for the rest of my being.”

—-

Ryoga screamed.

He had been stabbed, shot, pierced, and burned with Barian weapons, felt his body being wracked as the raw power coursed through his veins. He had been beaten, knocked unconscious, and poisoned. Yet, none of those things combined came even remotely close to the pain he felt as the Barian soul in his body attempted in vain to force the Astralite envoy away.

He didn’t know what to do; he didn’t know how to make the pain lessen. His blood was on fire, a raging, interminable torrent. His hands scrambled blindly over the floor as he cried. If he could find his weapon, he could end it-

 _No, you don’t have a weapon,_  an amused voice in the back of his head piped up.  _You left them in your room. Looks like you’ll have to keep your promise and suffer instead. But don’t worry, Ryoga. You won’t be in pain too much longer._

His hands found the wall, and he forced himself to slide to a sitting position. Blinking the dizzying stars out of his vision and the tears flowing from his eyes, he forced himself to look up at the pictograph directly overhead.

_Just a little bit longer, now._

A crown of roses…?

The pain in his chest intensified.

“Be merciful and kill me!” he screamed at the wall. “I’ve given everything to you! The least you could do is spare me this!”

His sweaty fingers tore at his chest in a desperate attempt to claw Shark Drake from his body. They came away bloody but he barely noticed. The blood seeping from the gouges he left there barely bothered him. Compared to the wildfire roaring through his body, the pain of his vain and cowardly attempts to free himself from his contract with Shark Drake didn’t concern him.

_I am you._

He crawled on hands and knees along the wall, reaching the pictograph of his mother praying to the Astral World. His body shuddered and he vomited on the stone floor.

_You are me._

With shaking hands, he touched his hand to his bloody neck. His fingers brushed his necklace, the sharp fang dangling from the leather cord. He pulled at it with sweaty, blood-soaked fingers until it came off.

_We are one._

As he pressed the fang to his wrist, a strange tremor wracked his chest. He slumped against the wall again and slid to the ground as the pain finally subsided and his heart stopped.


	44. Soul Bound

Each footstep in the hall, each opening and closing door, each quiet mutter from passing palace staff made Mizael tense up. It made Durbe uneasy as well. Sharing a room might get people talking – it was dangerous and foolish, and what else was new – but they didn’t have a choice. The Barians had taken their prince away, had set him on a ship bound for Arclight. The people in the palace would want him dead. It was why Durbe couldn’t be on that ship with Haruto, despite his misgivings about the prince’s safety. If it was dangerous to be in the palace for a night, it was five times more dangerous to be on a ship for two nights. It was time to get this over with.

“Durbe.”

They were resting side-by-side on the bed in front of the window, under separate blankets – Mizael had been adamant about that – but neither could sleep. Durbe was worried that someone would have a key into the room, worried that someone would climb through the window or break the door down or cause another explosion. He was worried that someone would try to poison them again, or that they would be ambushed during negotiations in the morning, or that something would happen to Haruto on the ship.

But Mizael was there. He was always there, no matter how far Durbe fell.

“What is it?”

“I have a feeling that something bad is going to happen tomorrow.” Mizael turned his head. The faint starlight outside lit the room enough for Durbe to see the crease in his brow.

“Like what?” Any number of things could go horribly wrong in the morning. Any number of things undoubtedly  _would_  go horribly wrong. Durbe shifted onto his side so he was looking into Mizael’s face.

“I don’t know.” Mizael shifted too, and pulled his hand from under his sheet. A moment’s hesitation, and he rested his hand on Durbe’s cheek. “Everything.”

Durbe’s face warmed under Mizael’s touch. He realized after a few seconds that he’d stopped breathing, and forced himself to exhale. “This is… unlike you.” He lifted his hand to Mizael’s.

“It is unlike me to feel anxious, yet here I am.” Mizael’s hand found Durbe’s wrist, and a strangled groan escaped Durbe’s throat when Mizael’s fingers brushed his soul gem. He felt a jolt in his chest; his breathing quickened. Yet it was not unpleasant. It felt rather like…

 _Like kissing him._  Except stronger, purer. More enticing, more natural, more _complete_.

“Mizael,” he breathed, and his general’s fingers tightened around his wrist. The shock in Durbe’s chest intensified and he shuddered.

“Your soul energy has depleted to dangerously low levels,” Mizael whispered.  “My God, Durbe, what have you done to yourself?”

“I have not been a good steward of it.”

“Obviously.” Mizael tugged at Durbe’s hand, pulling it toward his own gem. “Let me give you some of-”

“ _No_.” He wouldn’t have Mizael draining his own soul for Durbe’s sake. He wrenched his hand free. “I will be fine. When we… when we find Prince Astral, I will find a way to extract some of his.”

“How long were you going to pretend it wasn’t this bad?” Mizael drew himself to a half-sitting position. “Durbe, it didn’t feel like you have more than two years left.”

Two years… was that all? He felt so tired, weak, frustrated, terrified, and the past several days he felt dizzy and nauseous… Everything was crumbling around him. “I wonder if I’ll live that long regardless at the rate we’re going.”

“Don’t say ridiculous shit like that, Durbe.”

“It’s the truth.”

“You’re the biggest fool I’ve ever had this misfortune of meeting.”

Durbe smiled weakly and leaned closer to Mizael, positioning himself for comfort. He shouldn’t do this again, but… if time was running out… did it matter anymore?  _You know perfectly well it does._ “Yet you stayed with me all these years.”

Mizael scowled. “You would still be shoveling latrines if not for me.”

“Have I ever thanked you for that?”

“Once. But one more time couldn’t hurt.”

But once more  _could_  hurt, and as Mizael gently pressed his lips to Durbe’s – as they kissed once more, as they tangled their fingers in each other’s hair and felt each other’s trembling mouths and blanketed bodies pressed uncertainly together – Durbe knew they could go no further; no matter how much he wanted it, no matter how much he knew Mizael wanted it-

_You’ve lost sight of your goal._

-they  _couldn’t,_ and when they pulled apart and fell asleep, Durbe’s dreams were troubled once more with the knowledge that he had torn apart countless lives and families and tomorrow would be no different.

—-

Chess was a complex game; it was a game of skill rather than luck, and only someone who knew how to plan ahead could win. Koche prided himself on his ability to play the game, as well as his ability to play the real-life version of the game. It was no different; everyone played a role and some pieces would need to be sacrificed for others to achieve the ideal square on the board.

His skill at playing the game was, of course, the reason he had been a lord all these years.

 _The Dragoon Village._ He tipped over one of the black knights.

 _Arclight_. A rook.

 _Astral Kingdom._ A bishop.

_Check._

_Heartland._ The second rook.

 _Tenjo_. The other knight.

_Check._

The king, the queen, the other bishop, and a handful of pawns remained. On the white side, two pawns in front of a knight lay on their sides.

All seven emperors stood. The only one exposed was Durbe, the poor knight who had but one of his three pawns remaining.

“It was always impossible to get anything useful out of them.”

“You didn’t position them the right way.”

Polara bent over and picked up one of the pawns. “Too loyal to their knight.”

“That was their mistake.” Koche plucked the pawn out of her hand and tossed it back on the board. “They should have been loyal to their God instead.”

“Durbe is taking care of things in Tenjo,” a high voice said from the doorway. Ilya, naturally; and Pherka would be with her. “I hope this is a quick meeting. Things are getting, shall I say,  _unpleasant_  back in Heartland.”

“Rebellions?” Polara looked up from the chessboard.

“Far worse than Vector claims to have experienced in Astral,” Pherka replied. “River pirates, assassins, ex-merchants funding them… it’s a nightmare.”

Did she expect anything less? Heartland was a country of mercenaries and criminals. Astral had been a religious center, a farming country, pacifistic. The people there weren’t rough, and didn’t have much in their hearts for rebellion. “How many attempts have been made on your life, Lord Ilya?”

Ilya tapped her chin. Her lips pursed in thought. “Mm, perhaps five or six. Three of them were attempted poisonings, so I think I will politely refuse to consume anything they place in front of me from now on.”

“The others?” Polara seemed moderately interested now.

“The usual stabbing attempts,” Pherka said darkly. “They didn’t get close enough to smell Ilya’s repugnant perfume before she roasted them.”

Ilya muttered something under her breath with a side-glare at Pherka. “There was one attempt that I’m not sure was a deliberate one, but an extremely venomous snake found its way into my bedchambers last night when I got back from meeting with Alasco and the Arclights.”

There weren’t any wild venomous snakes around Heartland City. “It was probably a dreadful attempt to kill you, then.”

Pherka tossed her hair back and crossed her arms. Her Barian form was much harder to read than her human form, and that was saying wonders. “It doesn’t matter now. The snake is also dead. What do we do when Durbe returns from Tenjo?”

Durbe was playing a very different game from the rest of them. Koche was certain Durbe and Mizael had their own board set up – the king, the queen, and the dead knight and rook – with the other emperors on the opposing side.

Let him think he was winning when the opponent was two moves away from a checkmate.

“See how he handles it,” Polara said. “If it’s too much for him to rule Tenjo and Arclight, we will limit him. He has yet to find Prince Astral and the others, either.”

Too many misplays.

“What should we do about Mizael, then?” Ilya inquired. “Durbe has put an awful lot of attention into ensuring Mizael’s safety. They seem to have a very… codependent relationship. It’s unhealthy.”

“Do you think Mizael and Durbe are bedfellows?” Koche hated asking something like that of another lord, but…

“I think that Durbe is smart enough to know better,” Ilya said with a shrug as she glanced at her nails. “More likely he’s plotting and worried about something happening to his last general, and became overprotective.”

The other two lords nodded but Koche wasn’t so sure. Still, it was a serious accusation and without proof, he shouldn’t say anything more about it. “And Vector? Does anyone know where he was for the past couple of weeks?”

“We’ll just have to wait until Alasco returns,” Polara said.

Koche glanced down at his board again. There were too many chess masters moving the pieces on the board. There were too many chances for failure this way.

The king, Prince Astral. Cautious, slow to act but always defended. The queen, Yuma Tsukumo. Unpredictable, dangerous, a formidable barrier. The Kamishiros, the bishop. Various pawns, likely unwitting in their rebellion but helping the prince nonetheless. The gods moved their pieces, sacrificing the necessary ones in turn. What would their next move be?

—-

Faker droned on, but Durbe was only half-listening as he watched Kaito’s reaction to the proceedings. Aside from the young lord’s unusually quiet presence, Kaito’s eyes were wide and filled with tears. Surely he didn’t expect that tears would save his kingdom now? His remorse came too late for it to matter anymore.

“Haruto is non-negotiable,” Mizael was saying. “Nothing you give up to us will change that.”

But something was wrong; Kaito’s face was pale and slick with sweat, his body trembling. He held his fork with a violently quivering hand, though he seemed to have long ago abandoned any desire to eat the bit of potato on it.

“So, in the end, I give up both my kingdom and my sons,” Faker said bitterly. “Your thirst for power cannot be quenched, Lord Durbe.”

Durbe tore his gaze from Kaito. “Not conquest, Lord Faker. It is a desire for peace between our races, to show that we aren’t so different after-”

Kaito’s fork crashed to his plate, cutting Durbe off. Kaito let out a pitiable whine and doubled over, clawing at his chest; he tore his shirt and drew blood. Mizael reached him first as Durbe strode around the table; Kaito’s whine abruptly turned to an ear-splitting wail when Durbe knelt next to Mizael and grabbed Kaito’s wrist to keep the lord from harming himself further.

“Lord Kaito!” Kaito’s scream drowned out Durbe’s attempts to talk to him and Durbe looked up at Mizael, who pushed Kaito’s thrashing body back on the ground.

“What’s happening?” Faker sounded terrified; Durbe couldn’t blame him. His son was taken in a terrible seizure, seemingly out of nowhere. Kaito’s screams were punctuated by brief spells where he gasped for air, and Durbe wondered what possibly could have brought this on.

“Get the Healer!” Durbe said to Faker. “Bring him to Lord Kaito’s chambers. Now!”

Faker hesitated for a moment –  _surely he’s not going to be obstinate_ now _, when his son might be dying,_ Durbe thought furiously – but hurried out of the room without another word.

“Help me.” Durbe pulled Kaito’s arm over his shoulder and staggered to his feet. Kaito’s screaming had subsided, giving way to painful gasps. “Get his sword.”

Mizael touched the hilt but pulled away at once, letting out a quiet hiss as he examined his burned hand. “Damn it.”

It was like touching Lord Astral’s pendant all over again, Durbe realized, only… They had never had a problem touching the sword before. What had changed?

“Are you all right?” Kaito’s breathing was slowing now.

“Fine.” Mizael pulled Kaito’s other arm around his shoulder and paused, fingers fumbling over Kaito’s wrist. “Durbe.”

“Hmm?”

Mizael held Kaito’s wrist for a moment longer. “Durbe, his heart has stopped.”

—-

He’d spent the past five minutes trying to lace his shirt, but he ended up knotting it every time in distraction. The night before had been…

He let his hands fall. Ryoga regretted their sin, surely, despite his insistence that he couldn’t regret it.

_When this is all over…_

Would it ever be? Would there ever be a chance for Yuma Tsukumo and Ryoga Kamishiro to find peace in their lives?

Were his parents disappointed in him? Were they ashamed that their son had been intimate with a half-Barian man? He thought of them often, about whether they would be proud of him. For a long time, he thought he was doing the right thing. The good thing. But now he wasn’t so sure.

He’d kept a terrible secret from Astral, he’d kept it from Ryoga, and he’d had the audacity to blame Ryoga for not telling him about Akari.

“What does that make me?” he whispered with a bitter laugh.

A terrible scream pierced the silent halls.

Yuma was in the hallway before he realized what he was doing, his feet carrying him to the entryway where he had, days earlier, found Ryoga clutching his sister’s dead body.

The scream stopped abruptly.

“No, no, Ryoga-” Yuma pushed the door open and found his captain lying motionless on the blood-splattered floor. Blood covered his hands and face, and there were deep gouges in his chest. His fang necklace dangled loosely from his hand; still-wet tears mingled with the blood, dirt, and sweat on his cheeks. Yuma grabbed Ryoga by the shoulders and pulled him up, praying for a heartbeat, a breath,  _anything_  to reassure Yuma that Ryoga didn’t do exactly the thing he looked Yuma in the eyes and swore he wouldn’t.

 A soft breath slipped from Ryoga’s lips and relief flooded his body, relief that quickly gave way to terror when his fingers felt at Ryoga’s bloody, clawed neck and found no pulse.

No more breath escaped him.

“Why would you do this? Why,  _why_ , you stupid, stupid man!”

“Yuma, what’s happening?”

The scared voice at the door was exactly the one Yuma needed at that moment. “Kotori, he did something to himself-”

She knelt in a pool of blood and took Ryoga’s head in her hands. She murmured a prayer, and as she did, the blood flowing from the cuts on his chest subsided. With a whimper, she turned her terrified eyes to Yuma. “I can’t get his heart beating again.”

Yuma was sure his own heart had stopped. “There must be something-”

“I’m  _trying_ , Yuma!” Tears spilled down her face. “Gods, I’m  _trying_!”

“Keep trying!” Yuma grabbed her hands and placed them back on Ryoga’s chest. “Keep trying, Kotori!”

“Yuma, I can’t work miracles! If he’s already-”

“He  _isn’t_!”

“Why are you screaming, Lieuten-” Takashi froze in the doorway. “Oh gods, is he-”

He was a mage, wasn’t he? A powerful one? He could save Ryoga, maybe the gods had led him here for this moment- “Takashi, his heart isn’t beating and he’s not breathing.”

Takashi’s face paled. “Wh-what? What do you want me to do?”

“Anything!”

“My magic can’t be used to Heal people, Lieutenant!” Takashi’s voice was shrill now. “Unless you’re proposing I shock his heart into beating again, I am useless in this situation!”

 _Gods_ , why couldn’t any of them see that every second they sat by doing nothing, Ryoga was one second closer to death?

“That might work,” Kotori said suddenly.

“What?”

“Shocking his heart. It might work.”

“It might make it worse!”

“He’s going to die anyway, so what do we have to lose?”

“In summary, you want me to kill him faster.”

“Takashi, please!”

The mage swore under his breath and fell to his knees next to Ryoga. “I won’t be responsible for this if it kills him instantly,” he muttered, placing a hand on Ryoga’s chest.

Yuma bit his trembling lip. It had to work, it had to. Ryoga couldn’t be dead; he  _couldn’t_.  _He promised me he wouldn’t do this._

Ryoga’s body seized up, and a tiny gasp slipped from his lips.

“It worked,” Kotori whispered, dragging the sleeve of her nightshirt across her face. “Thank the gods, it worked.” She gave Takashi a tiny, grateful smile. “His heartbeat is slow but it’s there.”

—-

Mizael watched Durbe run his fingers over Kaito’s chest, where the Healer had stopped the bleeding and closed the wounds. The area directly over Kaito’s heart was swollen still; time had not cured him of the failed soul extraction. His sword sat next to him, cool now against Kaito’s silk sheets, and Mizael had been able to remove it from Kaito’s sheath when he lapsed into unconsciousness.

“You are the most bewildering man I have ever met, Kaito Tenjo,” Durbe murmured, pulling back and leaning his hands on the soft bed. “Just when I think I understand you, I realize that I know nothing.” He looked up at Mizael. “I’m so sorry; I didn’t know his sword would do that. Is your hand all right?”

Mizael flexed his fingers. The Healer had seen to it once he had ascertained that Kaito’s heart was inexplicably beating again. “It’s fine, Durbe. Don’t worry about me.”

Durbe sighed and his shoulders slumped, but to Mizael’s relief, he didn’t press it.

They stood in silence for nearly twenty minutes until Kaito stirred and opened his terror-filled eyes. His hands shook so much that he struggled to use them to lift himself to a sitting position, and he kept his lips tightly pressed together. Mizael had never seen Kaito so pale; his face dripped with cold sweat. When he finally spoke, his voice was breathy and barely audible.

“What… happened?”

Durbe lifted an eyebrow at Mizael before turning back to Kaito. “You had some sort of seizure in the middle of negotiations.”

Kaito’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Negotiations? For what?”

“Do you not remember?”

Kaito’s eyes darted to his shaking hands. “I… don’t. I remember… when you took Haruto last night.”

“You don’t remember anything between then and now?” Durbe pressed. “Anything at all, no matter how trivial? We can help you make sense of it.”

“Why should I let you help me do anything?” Kaito snapped, and he was back to his old self for a moment.

Mizael beat Durbe to it. “Because this kingdom is now part of the Barian Empire, and the more you help us, the better off you’re going to fare.”

Surprisingly, Durbe didn’t scowl or give Mizael a disapproving glare; he merely nodded slightly and watched Kaito’s reaction melt instantaneously from stubbornness to horror. He held a hand to his mouth, shoulders heaving.

“After all this,” Kaito whispered, burying his head in his quaking hands. “I still failed.”

“It was of your own doing when you allied yourself with murderers and terrorists,” Durbe said coldly. “Answer my questions, Lord Kaito, or I am well within my rights to have you stripped of your title and thrown in a cell for the rest of your miserable and hopefully short life.”

Kaito laughed wildly. “I don’t care. I don’t. You already took my brother from me. I have nothing left. No one to love me and no kingdom to rule. Throw me in a cell and let me rot, and let my soul be ripped apart in Hell that much sooner. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Durbe considered Kaito for a moment before leaning over the bed. “I guess I can’t threaten  _you_ , Lord Kaito, but we can threaten your brother. How do you want that on your broken, worthless soul?”

It was enough to cause Kaito to pull his knees to his chest and his face to crumple. “Why are you involving Haruto?” he choked out. “Why can’t you leave my family alone? Haven’t you ruined enough lives?”

Mizael watched Durbe’s hands clench on the sheets. It was a remarkably familiar refrain, and he felt a twinge of guilt again as he thought about the Arclights. “Because you won’t cooperate any other way,” Durbe said finally. “I don’t want to hurt Haruto. He will bring peace to this continent. I’m trying to help you get better so Haruto will be happy.”

Kaito scoffed. “Yeah, right.” He closed his eyes. “I guess I have no choice, but I don’t know everything that’s happening to me.”

“Start with the seizure. Have you experienced anything like it before?”

“No.” Kaito frowned. “I don’t even remember it.”

Mizael watched Kaito’s hand brush his sword. It appeared to be an unconscious gesture, a protective one. “Have you killed with that sword?”

Durbe glanced up at Mizael in surprise and Kaito’s eyes snapped open. Kaito shook his head furiously. “Unlike you, I’m not a murderer.”

“Don’t speak to my general that way,” Durbe said sharply, cutting off Mizael’s prepared retort. “Have you drawn blood with that sword?”

 _He’s figuring it out_ , Mizael thought, satisfied. Durbe had picked up on Mizael’s suspicions quickly. The sword was his soul, so perhaps when it touched another’s blood…

“I…” Kaito exhaled sharply and frowned at the door across the room. “Yes. When I first encountered… Ryoga and Rio Kamishiro.”

_What?_

“The Kamishiros?” Durbe leaned closer, eyes narrowing in fury. “You drew their blood? With this sword? Did you feel anything?”

Kaito shifted away from Durbe. “Not when I stabbed the woman. Not even when I pressed my blade to the captain’s neck.”

 _Unbelievable_ , Mizael thought furiously. This spoiled prince had the Kamishiros at his mercy and let them live. All of their troubles – since Prince Astral and Yuma Tsukumo’s escape – were direct results of this man allowing the Kamishiros to live.  _I almost died because this stupid man allied himself with the Dragoons instead of killing them._

Durbe, to Mizael’s surprise and annoyance, dismissed this information quickly. “So you felt nothing.”

“Not until I touched the captain’s chest,” Kaito murmured. “It hurt… and my sword burned like it was made of fire. When I let go of the blade and pulled my hand away, it stopped, but I felt… so tired.”

Durbe straightened up and looked down at Kaito through narrowed eyes. “Mizael, I need to speak with you for a moment.”

With a glance back at Kaito, Mizael followed Durbe into the hallway and closed the bedroom door behind him. “He had the best chance of anyone so far to kill the Kamishiros, and he couldn’t do it.”

Durbe shook his head. “No, I don’t expect him to kill anyone. He doesn’t have the mentality to kill.”

“Unless he thinks he has nothing to lose,” Mizael argued. “We have his brother, we have his kingdom, we condemned his soul – he might realize soon that he has no reason to hold back any longer. He could be a dangerous enemy.”

“I don’t think we have to worry about him,” Durbe mused. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

Mizael completely disagreed that Kaito was not a threat, but he knew better than to continue a conversation it was clear Durbe wanted to end. “Then what?”

Durbe closed his eyes for a moment. “He touched Captain Kamishiro’s chest. I think… he was trying to draw out the Astral power in the captain, much like what we do.”

“But it backfired.”

Durbe nodded and tapped a finger against his chin. “I suspect, instead of drawing out the captain’s power, he somehow… linked their souls together. A bit like the soul transfer, in a way, but… different. The soul binding allows the linked souls to feel emotions and thoughts, but rarely at such a distance, and I’ve certainly never heard of a soul binding where an equal mirror of pain was felt.”

Mizael didn’t know whether to laugh or shake his head. He compromised with both. “Are you suggesting that Kaito feels what the captain feels now?” Durbe’s solemn gaze confirmed it for him and he rubbed his eyes. “Then what he felt just a short time ago…”

“…was what Captain Kamishiro felt.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Something about Kaito’s testimony felt… off, somehow. Like he was holding something back.

“But what was the captain experiencing that caused that much agony?” Mizael pressed.

Durbe shrugged. “It reminded me a bit of Kaito’s extraction, the way he screamed and thrashed.”

Alit had told Mizael about how Kaito had tried to claw at his chest during the ritual. “But nobody was extracting anything from the captain.”

“I know.” Durbe pushed the door open. Mizael followed him in. “Lord Kaito, what sensations were you feeling last night?”

Kaito looked up, startled. Maybe he hadn’t expected them to come back. “What do you mean?”

Durbe stopped at the bedside. “I mean, did you feel any overwhelming sensations last night? Pain, anger, sorrow?”

“I…” Kaito looked away. His face flushed. “I don’t remember.”

“Don’t lie to me. You may not have remembered anything from this morning, but you remember last night. You feel Captain Kamishiro’s emotions, even from a great distance, but only when they’re powerful emotions. This morning, he suffered excruciatingly. You felt it, too. Something led to his suffering this morning. What did you feel last night that might explain it?”

Kaito fidgeted with the sheets and closed his eyes. “I just thought I could sense his presence,” he muttered. He seemed to be talking to himself. “I could… feel him. Where he was. Last night, I thought… but it was him?” He seemed almost relieved.

“ _Lord Kaito_ ,” Durbe said impatiently. “If you do not answer me directly-”

“Pleasure.”

The word slipped out, almost inaudible under the beginning of Durbe’s threat. Durbe froze.

“ _Pleasure_?” Mizael spat out the word. How disgusting that Kaito could feel Captain Kamishiro’s  _pleasure_ across this distance.

“And… despair. Guilt.” Kaito shifted against his pillows. “I thought it was my own. For days. All I could feel… was guilt and despair. Until…” He turned away again, face red.

Durbe leaned close to Mizael. “A tragedy occurred in the captain’s life,” he murmured.

“And he coped with it by taking someone into his bed,” Mizael murmured back. Kaito’s face told him as much. Kaito could feel… what Captain Kamishiro could feel. It would have been amusing to see Kaito cope with the sensation of feeling someone else make love, but it disturbed Mizael too much to find it amusing for long.

“This morning, the guilt was overwhelming,” Kaito mumbled. “But now I feel  _nothing_.”

“One more question. You said you can feel where the captain is. Where is he?”

Kaito shook his head again. “I… don’t know.”

 _The Shrine, perhaps?_ That was where Vector thought they were headed. Or Kaito was lying. Either way, Durbe seemed satisfied, so Mizael let it go.

Durbe took Mizael’s elbow and jerked his head toward the door. “That will do. We’ll leave you to rest. You were helpful, Lord Kaito.”

“Please don’t hurt my brother.”

Durbe paused at the door, holding it open for Mizael. “We will not.” He followed Mizael out and closed the door, eyes squinted in bewilderment. “Vector suspected the captain and Yuma Tsukumo had  _something_  between them,” Durbe reflected. “Perhaps…”

The thought nauseated Mizael. “Would a Dragoon really bed another man?”

“He might have been desperate. Kaito felt overwhelming sorrow, whatever happened. Grief leads people to do things they normally wouldn’t.”  _You know that better than most,_ Mizael thought, forcing down the memories of Durbe lying in bed with him, sobbing into Mizael’s chest, forcing down the memories of the night before, where they had shared a kiss and Mizael had felt Durbe’s own guilt and fear through his soul gem. “The lieutenant might have been there for him in a time of need.”

“And he… regretted it afterward? So much that it numbed Kaito, this far away?”

“I don’t know. I know the Dragoon culture fairly well, all things considered, but that doesn’t mean I  _understand_  it.” Durbe rubbed his eyes tiredly, but Mizael wasn’t done.

“What did the captain do to himself to cause this much pain?” Mizael said quietly. “Surely if he wanted to kill himself, he would have picked a less painful way out.”

“I don’t have an answer for that either. Not even a theory. But Mizael, if Kaito can feel Captain Kamishiro’s most powerful emotions, his most excruciating pain…”

Mizael understood. Maybe the bond worked in reverse. “Should we kill Kaito?”

“Not yet.” Durbe sighed heavily. “We can still use him.”

Mizael didn’t think so. Kaito Tenjo was too independent and too desperate to be used. But he didn’t argue with Durbe.


	45. Two-Sided Mirror

Despite the intended comfort they were meant to bring to the room, the silk sheets, plush feather mattress, and hand-sewn draperies made Chris uneasy. This room, now used for esteemed guests, had once belonged to Prince Astral. The prince had slept on that mattress, had curled up safe and warm under those sheets as rain pattered on the windows that the draperies covered. Now he slept on the cold, rocky ground, on the run for his life from those who stole this palace from him along with his parents’ lives.

“You can say something.”

_The River of the Gods runs deep in Sargasso._

There was no river in Sargasso. It was a wasteland, a desert. What did it mean? Why would the gods want a message so cryptic to get passed along to Kaito? Was Kaito getting shoved back in his life after all; was there something they had to accomplish together?

_Do you know Kaito Tenjo?_

He’d had no choice. Akari’s brother was Prince Astral’s closest companion. Akari could be his greatest ally or his greatest weakness. He needed her to trust him.

_My affair… was with Kaito Tenjo._

“You took another prince as your lover for a decade. What do you  _expect_ me to say to that, Chris?”

Akari was calm – well, calmer than he’d anticipated – as she perched on the edge of the bed, facing him. Her arms were crossed, an eyebrow lifted disapprovingly. “I expected you to yell, if truth be told. But instead you stare at me as if I am your unruly little brother. Did Yuma ever do anything to deserve that look?”

“You can leave Yuma out of this.”

But he couldn’t. The gods wanted Akari to pass on the message to Kaito, and there had to be something about it that Kaito understood, even if Chris didn’t. He saw the connections clearly:  Kaito knew the Kamishiro twins, who were Yuma’s travelling companions and friends. None of them would listen to Chris; he was a traitor, a Barian sympathizer, a coward. But they – Yuma, at least – would listen to Akari. Akari was his connection.

“I know you don’t trust me,” he began, and Akari snorted loudly.

“Oh really.”

Chris closed his eyes and sat on the windowsill. It was uncomfortable, but he wanted to put as much distance between them as possible. “If you would hold off on your cynical comments until after I’m finished explaining myself, I would very much appreciate it.”

She rolled her eyes ever so slightly but waved a hand at him, which he took to mean that he could speak.

“Thank you.” He took a calming breath. He had to be careful not to sound like he was using her to get to her brother and Prince Astral. “Over the past year, my brothers and I have noticed that several of the Barian lords appear to be backstabbing the others. We’re trying to use that to our advantage to undermine their plans.”

As he spoke of his plans for the Arclight Kingdom, for the Astral Kingdom, for Heartland and Tenjo… he practically felt his own misgivings melt away. It was possible. With enough good fortune and under exactly the right circumstances… if they could bring Prince Astral to their side…

_We can defeat the Barians. We can bring down the Barian Empire._

—-

“Ryoga.”

His eyes were heavy; his chest ached. His  _everything_  ached, really – head, back, throat, hands – and he couldn’t remember…

“Can you hear me?”

There was a hand on his back. A large hand. Firm. He shuddered at the taste of blood and vomit in his mouth and struggled to his knees. Gritty sand stuck to his wet face as he furiously blinked the residual tears from his eyes. He was sitting on what looked like a beach, with a dark, gently ebbing ocean stretched out for miles in front of him. It was nothing like any place he had ever seen before.

“What… happened?”

The man didn’t answer. Ryoga wondered for a moment what kind of dream this was when he caught his first glimpse of the man.

 _Yuma_  was his first thought, but it… it wasn’t. This man was older, scruffier, with different eyes and a larger build. But the resemblance was unmistakable.

“You’re Yuma’s father. Kazuma.”

The man smiled humorlessly. “That I am. And you’re Captain-Commander Ryoga Kamishiro, last of the Dragoons.”

“I’m only one of those things now. And you’re dead.” Ryoga peered around the beach. It was small; barely as large as his quarters had been during his time at the palace in Astral Kingdom, and it seemed… round.  _An island?_

“That I am.” His voice was softer.

Ryoga placed a hand to his stomach. He felt the nausea again. “That must mean  _I’m_  dead.” Saying it out loud wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.

“Only if you want to be.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Kazuma stood, brushing sand from his pants. It was unnecessary; the sand disappeared before he touched it, and Ryoga jerked back as his hands rested in a pile of snow. They seemed to be on an endless, flat, snowy plain. “Walk with me.”

As Kazuma walked, he left no footprints behind him. Ryoga climbed slowly to his feet and, ignoring the spike of pain through his midriff, he followed. He had plenty of questions, and plenty of desire to hit the man. Not that it would have done any good.

“Where’s Rio? Where’s my sister?”

With a sigh, Kazuma waved his hand aimlessly. “The gods didn’t know what to do with her.”

“Is she condemned?” Was it too late to save Rio’s soul?

“No…” Kazuma paused and looked up at the sky. Cloudy, gray, foreboding. For a man that seemed to be able to control the environment at will, he had a strange preference for unpleasant weather. “She’s… in an in-between world. A bordering world.”

“I don’t understand.”

He sighed again and bent down, tracing shapes in the snow. “There are three worlds. The world of the living, the Astral World, and the Barian World. They orbit one another, balance one another out. A world of chaos. A world of order. And a world where the two coexist.”

Ryoga knew this; he’d known it his whole life. He’d been raised in a strict religious culture. Surely Kazuma hadn’t forgotten that. But he waited.

“In between these worlds, there’s… an empty space.” Kazuma stared into the snow. “A place of dreams. A place where things that  _might_  have been…  _are_.”

In Ryoga’s entire life, in all of his travels and his studies and his prayers and meditations, he had never heard of such a place. “And she’s there. In this… empty space. My sister is in a dream world.”

“The gods didn’t know what else to do with her. She had, by and large, been a faithful servant. Condemning her to Hell seemed like a cruel thing.”

“How considerate of them,” Ryoga spat. “We did  _everything_ for the sake of Astral World and the Astral Kingdom and this is what we get in return? Being trapped in a void between worlds?”

“The Barian soul cannot live in the Astral World,” Kazuma said calmly. He straightened up again. “It’s impossible. It was the kindest thing they could have done under-”

“The kindest thing they could have done was to make sure we never existed at all!”

They stood on the ashy ground of a burned forest now. Trees stained with ashes and scorch marks bowed, weighed down with broken branches. There was nothing to indicate that anyone had ever lived there. And perhaps, in Astral World, no one ever had. But it was as Ryoga knew it. His home. A flicker of surprise appeared in Kazuma’s face, quickly replaced by a solemn expression.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Ryoga whispered, gesturing at the destruction. He turned into the wind, whipping ash into his face. “To look at this and realize that the only reason it happened was because you  _existed_.” He had been faithful his entire life, dedicating his heart and soul to the Astral World, believing that he would one day return to the earth and be reborn. It was his fate as a Dragoon, his destiny, and now… “What  _is_  my destiny, Kazuma? Was this it all along? To be a vessel for the gods to dangle around for some unknown purpose?”

When Kazuma didn’t answer, Ryoga knew it was true. He wasn’t supposed to exist. But the gods had carved out a use for him anyway, to do their bidding. They let him believe that he was destined for greatness his entire life, let him believe he had a future, where he really had none at all.

“Why am I talking to you, anyway?” Ryoga wondered, turning back to Kazuma. “Why you and not the gods? Who’s in charge?”

“They don’t know you’re here. When you merged your soul with Shark Drake, you ceased to be a foreign entity in this world. I will call them for you, but first I want you to promise to take care of Yuma.”

“Take care of Yuma?” Ryoga’s temper flared again and he clenched his hands into fists. “You want me to take care of the son that  _you_  abandoned, that  _you_  burdened with all of this –  _he did everything for you_! He wanted you to be proud of him, you bastard! If he never joined the Guard, he would never have corrupted his soul with murder and revenge and-and-“

“He never would have fallen for you?”

It wasn’t meant to be accusatory, but the guilt pierced Ryoga’s heart anyway. The embarrassment. The fear for Yuma’s soul. So Kazuma knew? Yuma tried so hard to make his father proud of him. How did Kazuma really feel about what they had done? “He would be better off if he’d never met me.”

Ryoga didn’t even see the hand that slapped his face; he certainly felt the sting from it. “Now you sound melodramatic,” Kazuma said shortly, lowering his hand again as Ryoga put his hand up. “’Woe is me, Ryoga Kamishiro, the last Dragoon, the half-Barian freak with everyone else’s decisions on my shoulders.’ He’s a grown man, and he made his choices.”

“To follow me,” Ryoga muttered, rubbing his face.

“Exactly.” Kazuma prodded Ryoga in the chest with enough force to almost knock Ryoga over. “He  _chose_  to follow you. Stop thinking about how  _you_ feel about his choices and let  _him_  accept his consequences. Besides.” Kazuma stepped away. His eyes darkened. “This is his fate.”

Ryoga shook his head. He wouldn’t accept that. He wouldn’t accept that the fate the gods had in mind for Yuma Tsukumo was one full of heartbreak, despair, and self-hatred. That was fine for Ryoga – it had been part of his life for more than ten years – but for Yuma, it was incomprehensible. “You’re letting your own son suffer. For what? For a fate that he doesn’t acknowledge even exists.”

“It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t acknowledge it, Ryoga.”

The scenery changed again. Now they stood in a forest full of life; the stream flowed swiftly over enormous boulders, the sun shined through the leafy treetops, and Kazuma lifted his head toward the sun’s warm rays. It smelled like an apple orchard during autumn mingled with the faintly earthy scent of creek water.

“If anyone can change their fate, it’s Yuma.”

“Not even Yuma can change the fate in store for him.” Kazuma looked back, a sorrowful expression in his face. “You and Yuma…” His lips twitched in a weak smile. A sad smile. “You’re a lot alike, you know.”

Alike? They were nothing alike. Yuma was gentle, merciful; he had a pure, unbreakable heart, unwavering determination, an infinite capacity to love and forgive those who didn’t deserve his love or his forgiveness.

“I could never be like Yuma.”

“Not like that.” Kazuma wet his lips. “The circumstances of Yuma’s birth… are much like yours.”

Ryoga’s breath caught in his chest. That… couldn’t be. Yuma couldn’t… he couldn’t be… “He’s…”

“Not a Barian.” Kazuma closed his eyes. His shoulders slumped. “You are… like two sides of a mirror. You were born to further the Barians’ goals. But Yuma… was born as a vessel to do the gods’ bidding.” He laughed shakily, but Ryoga couldn’t think of anything he found less amusing. Kazuma might as well have slapped him again and Ryoga wouldn’t have felt more pain. “You two caused an awful lot of commotion around here when… you know.”

“Good for us,” Ryoga snapped. “Did you all sit around up here and get off to it?”

Kazuma opened his mouth but made it no further than drawing a sharp breath before closing it again. He was no longer looking at Ryoga, but at something over Ryoga’s shoulder.

“How crude.”

Ryoga turned. A towering figure in blue robes with mid-length, white-blond hair and pale skin stood a few yards away. Their pale, almost translucent eyes were fixed on Kazuma. It was not a friendly stare.

“Rabelais,” Kazuma greeted in a quiet voice.

Rabelais didn’t even blink. “I was wondering what you were up to this time.”

“Just having a friendly conversation with my son’s-”

“Lover.” Rabelais’s eyes shifted over to Ryoga. “I wonder, Kazuma, did you tell him how much damage he did to our plans?”

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Ryoga whispered. Rabelais didn’t seem to have an ounce of empathy in their entire body. Then again, none of the gods seemed to.

“You broke your oaths and encouraged an Astral being to share his bed with a Barian. That act alone is an unforgivable abomination.”

“Neither of them knew that-”

“Ignorance is no longer an excuse we will tolerate.” Rabelais stepped closer to Ryoga, who found himself unable to move his legs. “You need to leave, Kazuma. Stop interfering or we will take action against you in the future.”

“He deserves to know what you are planning to do to Yuma.”

“We are not planning on doing anything to Yuma Tsukumo,” Rabelais said coldly. “Yuma Tsukumo has a destiny foretold for generations.”

“What destiny?” Ryoga’s voice came out high, quivering. It didn’t matter. Rabelais’s eyes remained locked on Ryoga’s, as if they were seeing right into his thoughts.

“He will be the savior of this world.”

“What destiny?”

A smile appeared on Rabelais’s face. It succeeded in nothing but making them more terrifying. “In order to save this world from the Barians, Yuma Tsukumo must die.”

—-

Ryoga opened his eyes slowly, squeezing them and blinking experimentally. One hand went to his throat and grasped for the fang necklace that was now in Yuma’s pocket.

Despite his anxiety and anger at Ryoga, Yuma couldn’t help but smile as he grasped Ryoga’s hand. “Thank the gods.”

He didn’t expect Ryoga to pull his hand away. He didn’t expect Ryoga to look at him with a mixture of confusion and – unless he was imagining it – disgust. And he certainly didn’t expect Ryoga’s hoarse voice to snap at him.

“Don’t  _touch_  me.”

Yuma’s hand fell limply on the bed as his smile disappeared. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes again. “Ryoga, what-”

“Forget what we did last night,” Ryoga said firmly. “It was a mistake.”

The shock of this denunciation felt like a powerful kick to the stomach. Yuma’s mouth moved soundlessly as he sat back on the chair next to the bed. It hadn’t been… a mistake. It wasn’t. Ryoga promised. “It didn’t feel like a mistake,” he whispered.

“It was.”

Yuma looked into Ryoga’s face for a sign of regret, sorrow, remorse and found none. There was nothing but indifference there now. “What happened to you? Why did you do this?” He leaned closer to place his hand on Ryoga’s face, but Ryoga grabbed him by the forearm and shoved him away.

“Nothing. It was a mistake. I had to atone for my sins.”

_I’m going to go pray._

_For forgiveness?_

_For freedom… from the chains of Fate._

“I don’t believe you.” The tears fell. Ryoga watched them fall and didn’t move.

“It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. It was a mistake.”

Yuma took a shuddering breath. Ryoga didn’t lie to him. He couldn’t have. The way he had touched Yuma, looked at him, kissed him… they were genuine. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t think we should do it again… I understand that, I do. But Ryoga, don’t you dare give me the hope for a future together and then call it a mistake.”

He stood, surprisingly calmly. Maybe he hoped Ryoga would call him back. Maybe he hoped for an apology, a soft  _I’m sorry, but…_

It never came, and Yuma shut the door behind him and broke down in the hallway.

—-

Cramped legs and stiff muscles were the least of Lord Heartland’s problems. He’d been shoved in a bag, thrown on a grain ship, and was deprived of food, fresh air, and basic hygiene-related rights. He didn’t know how long it had been; hours, days.

“Hurry up, Brother.”

Voices in the cargo room. Urgent voices, even. Were they here to save him? He tried to call out to them but he had screamed himself hoarse long enough that there wasn’t much left of his voice.

“How am I supposed to know which goddamn bag he’s in?” a second voice demanded. It was familiar. Not one of his captors, but-

He shifted in the bag. If he moved around…

“Ah, this must be him.”

A knife cut through the sack, entirely too close to Heartland’s face, and he glimpsed a scarred eye and a mess of hair before his rescuer grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him out of the sack.

“How dare you treat me like th-oh!” The knife was at his back now.

“We should go before they get here, Brother.”

“He’s filthy and smells like his own shit,” the other grumbled.

“Don’t talk about me like a common-”

The knife pressed deeper and Heartland whimpered. “How about you shut up? The only reason we’re saving you is to keep the Barians from taking credit for killing you.”

That didn’t make any sense at all. “What?”

“ _Brother_.”

“I’m coming.” He dragged Heartland across the floor of the cargo room and opened a port window. “Can you swim, Lord Heartland?”

He was the ruler of a port city; of course he knew how to swim. Now, whether his cramped muscles would be able to move was another story. “Yes.”

“Good.”

As his rescuer shoved Heartland toward the porthole, Heartland recognized the pair of them now.

He didn’t have any time to wonder why the two younger Arclight princes were helping him escape from the Barians before he was unceremoniously shoved through the window into the icy waters below.


	46. Seeds of Rebellion

Flecks of blood stained the hem of Durbe’s cloak as he stepped over the bodies littering the dock. He looked more tired than ever; his eyes were rimmed in red from his lack of sleep, his human face pale and dry. Mizael expected him to be angry, but he wasn’t. He was dejected. Worried.

"They say pirates did this," Durbe said softly, nodding toward the humans milling on the other side of the pier. They gathered with a grotesque fascination wherever death was involved. It was disgusting. Mizael hated the sight of death. He couldn’t fathom why any human would willingly come to the pier to witness this scene of slaughter, how their eyes could twinkle with  _excitement_ as they stared and pointed and whispered to one another about the crumpled bodies drowning in pools of their own blood.

"You don’t think so."

"No." Durbe nudged a body out of his path without looking at it. "There wasn’t just grain on this ship; there were spices from the southern islands. They wouldn’t leave those untouched. Nor would they murder everyone on board. They were here for one reason."

"No one was supposed to know Heartland was on this ship."

Durbe stared at the lazily drifting river. “No one except us… and Ilya.”

Out of all of the Barian lords, Mizael would have suspected Ilya last of attempting to undermine another lord. But then… she might be better at the game than Durbe had given her credit for. “You think Ilya ordered an attack on this ship and had Heartland kidnapped?”

"I don’t know what to think anymore." Durbe closed his eyes. He needed rest. He’d barely slept in weeks, and the night before, he’d woken screaming – for Alit, for Gilag, for someone named Kaid. Yet he refused to tell Mizael what he’d dreamed about, or who Kaid was. "We need to find him. Whoever did this knew it would fall back on the two of us."

Naturally. The others wanted Mizael demoted or imprisoned or dead or all three, and Durbe’s steadfast defense of him didn’t really endear Durbe to the rest of them. “I’ll search for-“

"No." Durbe pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. "No. I’ll get someone else to lead the search for Heartland."

He didn’t need to reiterate why he didn’t want Mizael to leave. It didn’t stop Mizael from feeling as though Durbe were sheltering him in an attempt to keep him from meeting the same fate as Alit and Gilag. In fact, he was certain that was  _exactly_  the thing that was happening. His fingers twitched. “What do you want me to do, then? You need to let me do  _something_.”

Durbe stepped over another body and made his way off the dock. Mizael followed. “Research,” he said in a low voice. “Deciphering the legend is the most important thing you can do right now.”

Mizael couldn’t argue. He barely had time to think about it in the past two days. “And you?”

"I have to explain this to the others before rumors start spreading," Durbe said with as much reluctance as someone about to be lowered into a den of rattlesnakes. "With any luck, Vector and Alasco are still in Astral Kingdom and I won’t be humiliated as much."

"Get some rest first, Durbe."

"I don’t have time." Durbe lifted a hand to open a portal.

"You’re killing yourself."

He paused, lowered his hand, and turned back to Mizael. “I can only sleep when you’re with me.”

Sooner or later, they would be caught in bed together. Nothing was happening there; Mizael’s mere presence comforted Durbe enough to allow him to catch a few elusive hours of sleep. Aside from the foolish few times they had exchanged kisses, neither would or could do anything more with their relationship – it had taken Mizael too long to acknowledge to himself what was happening and how  _sweet_ Durbe’s inexperienced lips felt on his own – but they had taken it too far as it was.

"When you return from Baria, come find me."

Sooner or later, they would be caught, and their entire hard-fought world would shatter around them.

"I will. Good luck, Mizael."

Mizael waited until he was gone before opening his own portal. “Keep your wits about you this time, Durbe.”

—-

Fire never bothered Ilya. It was at once life-giving and life-threatening, destructive and rejuvenating, a cause of warmth and a cause of fear. She wielded the element skillfully, and the respect she gained from it – or the fear others had of her, she wasn’t certain which – catapulted her to the top of the Barian government. No longer was she scorned, but the sound of the terrified voices who had once called her  _witch, murderer, freak_  now whispering her title in shaking voices –  _Lord Ilya_  – was like crystal bells chiming after decades of listening to an unstrung harp accompanying an untuned piano.

Fire was  _hers_ , and watching manmade fires tear pointlessly across portions of Heartland City made her sick.

"Durbe has called a meeting."

Ilya could have laughed. Whatever Durbe had to say couldn’t be more important than open rebellion in the city. “The merchants’ board is behind this, you know.”

"Then kill them," Pherka said indifferently. "It’s never stopped you before."

"Not until I’ve figured out their network." Ilya turned from the window and sat at the dining room table. An untouched pot of tea sat cold nearby. Poisoned, probably. They weren’t really trying to disguise the fact that they wanted her dead anymore and Ilya didn’t particularly care. "Vector says there are pockets of resistance to the Barian Empire in the Astral Kingdom, no doubt spurred on by Durbe’s failure to kill the prince and his cohorts." But they weren’t burning down the towns in that kingdom. It was either more organized or more anarchic here. Ilya leaned toward the former; some of the fires were so perfectly positioned and spaced out that it  _couldn’t_  have been the random work of anarchists.

"I noticed that you’ve sent in the Guard."

"Didn’t really have a choice." Ilya smoothed her purple silks and leaned her head on her fist. "They were starting to raid the warehouses and when I put an end to that, they started  _destroying_  the warehouses.” Most of the fires were under control, but some had already taken out entire granaries; others had destroyed ships filled with spices. She’d even heard one ludicrous report of a band of men who had thrown coffee into the river. “It seems like a mentality that if they can’t have something, no one can.” It hurt, too; trade, her reputation among the Barians, her pride.

"In the meeting with Durbe, you could ask for suggestions. Durbe put down the rebellions in Arclight rather quickly last year; perhaps he can help."

Poor Durbe; he couldn’t even help himself. He’d lost control of everything from the Arclights to the Tenjo Kingdom to his emotions and his common sense. Ilya looked up at Pherka, who was staring aloofly out the window with her arms crossed. “I suppose so.”

"Where’s your human pet, anyway?" Pherka tore her eyes from the window. "I haven’t seen him since I got here."

"Oh, Lieutenant Okudaira." Ilya sighed and pulled herself to her feet. "Unfortunately, I think he’s decided to ally himself with the rebels."

"Why haven’t you killed him, then?"

She was, truthfully, rather fond of Fuya. He was polite and obedient – outwardly, anyway – and reserved. She’d found a small chunk of a reddish crystal in his belongings the night before. Regular corundum, but he might have believed it to be Baria crystal. And he liked going into the city. Even when fires broke out and stores were looted and soldiers murdered in the streets, Fuya stayed in the city. She had few doubts that he was behind at least some of this. “He has connections that I don’t.”

Fuya Okudaira would lead her to the rebels, and that would doubtless lead her to Prince Astral.

—-

Anna dislodged another tick from her arm and muttered a curse. They were  _everywhere_. Disgusting, bloodsucking  _things_. It didn’t help that Gauche made a comment about how sometimes they carried fever plagues. If she got sick, she knew who and what to blame.

They’d wandered the densest parts of the forest for three days, and it seemed that the more trees there were, the more insects there were as well. Ticks, mostly, though she’d also gotten two spider bites and the gods knew how many bites from every other kind of vile creature on the planet.

The Dragoon Shrine was, of course, straight up the side of a mountain. The higher they went, the colder it became, but that didn’t seem to deter the insects. If anything, they swarmed her more. So when they reached the bottom of the stairs leading up to the Shrine, Anna even forgot the fact that she would now have to listen to Captain Kamishiro berate her for leaving the weapons behind.

As it turned out, she didn’t need to hear it.

Yuma greeted them halfheartedly, expressing his relief that they were alive, but his face and body language didn’t reflect the words he spoke. He’d been crying; that much was clear from his blotched face and raw nose. The shadows under his eyes were more pronounced than ever before and he seemed to have given up on proper posture, with his shoulders slumped forward and his chin down.

When Anna asked where Rio was, Yuma’s demeanor changed. His back stiffened and he flinched and his face contorted and quivered.

_Rio… died a few days ago._

But he wouldn’t say how.

The atmosphere in the Shrine’s kitchen was even tenser. Kotori barely looked at anyone. Prince Astral sat in the corner of the kitchen with his head resting against the stone wall, eyes locked on the leg of the chair adjacent to him as he mouthed something to himself, shaking his head periodically. Yuma stared into his cup as though willing it to become the strongest drink in the world. The captain was nowhere in sight; Yuma muttered that he was recovering in bed from something when Anna asked about him.

_Cheery lot._

Cathy sat cross-legged in the corner and pulled out a handful of juniper berries, popping them in her mouth one by one. Anna never wanted to put another juniper berry anywhere near her mouth ever again. They’d eaten practically nothing  _but_ the strong, tangy berry for two days. “Rio was very nice. I hope she is running free in the forests now.”

Kotori pushed her chair back, excused herself quietly, and hurried out of the room. As she left, a man slipped past her into the room. He was vaguely familiar, but Anna strained her memory and came up with nothing. When he announced that the captain wanted everyone to gather in his quarters, Yuma closed his eyes and Astral looked up. But with the exception of Kotori, they followed, and when everyone found a place to stand around the captain’s bed, he straightened up against his pillows.

"It’s good to see you all," he said, glancing between Anna, Droite, Gauche, and Cathy in turn. "Our numbers are growing."

"I don’t belong to any side," Droite cut in. "I serve the one who pays me the most."

The captain’s gaze returned to her. “If things continue as they are, there soon will be no side but the Barians.”

His tone lacked any of its usual cynicism, bitterness, grumbled complaints, accusations, or thinly veiled attempts at vengeance and heroics. There was no emotion in it at all, and Anna felt the hairs on her arms and neck stand up. She glanced at Yuma, whose arms were folded as he looked down at his feet, eyebrows creased.

"What the hell is going on?" she demanded.

"We have been the prey for too long," Ryoga said quietly. "It’s time to act." He sat up, and Anna caught a glimpse of scarring under his half-open nightshirt. "We are going to take back the Astral Kingdom."

The silence that filled the room was such that Anna was fairly sure she could hear Gauche’s heart beating. It lasted a full twenty seconds before she laughed with absolutely no mirth whatsoever.

"You’ve fucking gone crazy."

"Anna," Yuma muttered, but Anna was undeterred.

"Listen to yourself!  _We’re going to take back the Astral Kingdom._ With a merchant, two assassins, a girl who can talk to animals, an exiled prince, a Healer, two ex-soldiers, and… whatever this guy is?” She waved a hand at the mystery man. “ _And_ , need I remind you, half of us aren’t even  _from_ Astral Kingdom and have no affection or affiliation with it at all.”

"It’s your duty to your race," the captain said, unruffled.

"Oh my  _gods!_ " Anna ran her hands down her face. This was ludicrous; was she the only one in this room with any sense? "I’m a merchant! All I wanted was to get my goods back –  _which you stole from me_ – and there is  _no way in hell_  I am getting involved in this harebrained suicide mission.” She strode toward the door. “Getting that weapon back is not even worth this.”

"We’re all chained together by the bonds of Fate."

She looked back. He stared at her passively. “What?”

"When we crossed paths, we became chained together. No matter what you desire, we are prisoners to the same Fate now."

Anna wrenched open the door. “Well, unchain me then, because I refuse to be a part of this.”

She slammed the door behind her.

—-

Either Vector was a fool or he was confident enough in his own powers to repel unwanted guests without the need for extra security. Kaito was glad for it regardless.

“ _He has the book. General Mizael, I mean.”_

“ _Then there’s no hope, Ukyo. After everything, after all I’ve done… there’s no hope.”_

“ _That’s not true, Lord Kaito.”_

The walls were smooth marble, entirely unlike the stone walls of Arclight or Tenjo. Climbing them would be difficult if not impossible, but there was only one open window, on the second floor. There must be someone in the room that he would have to silence somehow, but it beat the alternative of breaking a window and alerting  _everyone_  in the palace.

“ _I memorized the legend. Every word.”_

He knew the gods had forsaken him, but he couldn’t help but pray as he cautiously made his way up a tree. He had done many stupid things in his life, but this was one of the stupidest. If it didn’t work, he would end up with a broken ankle, or a broken back, or a broken neck, and all of those things would be preferable to what he would encounter should Vector sense he was there. Even if he did make it into the palace, he didn’t even know where the library  _was_. That was the only thing preventing him from being able to teleport himself straight into the palace in the first place.

“ _The library at Arclight has more than I can offer you. Your grandmother’s genealogy would be there, if it is anywhere at all.”_

He had to do it, even if the tree was entirely too far away from the window. He wasn’t a very good jumper, and he felt a twinge of jealousy for the Kamishiro twins’ gods-given jumping abilities. Still, he’d sold his soul for power, so now seemed as good a time as any for it to do something useful for a change.

He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants, took a deep breath, and jumped.

His height wasn’t enough, and he fell just short of the window ledge. In a moment of desperation, panic, sheer determination – he didn’t know which; maybe all three – he reached blindly for his sword and thrust it into the wall.

It cut through the solid marble under the window as easily and quietly as if the wall were made of bread, and he managed to stabilize himself, dangling twenty feet above the ground with nothing to support him but his sword. He breathed deeply before releasing it with his left hand, feeling his way slowly up the wall until his fingers gripped the edge of the windowsill. His heart throbbed painfully as he cautiously dislodged his sword, clumsily re-sheathed it, and swung his other hand up to the window.

His upper arms burned with the effort of pulling himself into the room, feet sliding on the marble, and it came as little surprise when he found a sword at the back of his neck upon slipping inside.

"How did you get up here?" An unfamiliar woman’s voice, and an authoritative one at that.

"Wait." The second voice was more familiar to Kaito than his own father’s. His heart thudded again, more painfully than before. Kaito heard the soft  _clink_ of a second sword being picked up. “Back away.”

The woman snorted softly. “He won’t have a chance to take out his weapon, Christopher.”

"It’s not you I’m worried about."

Kaito tried to turn his head but grimaced against the cold steel blade behind him, and was forced to turn straight ahead again. “Why are you here, Chris?”

"I was going to ask you the same thing, Kaito."

"Kaito?" The woman’s sword loosened slightly. "Kaito? This is Kaito?"

"That’s what my mother named me," Kaito said through gritted teeth, and she pressed the blade deep enough to draw blood.

"You bastard, you’re the reason I’m in this mess," she hissed.

"Akari, stop. Please."

Kaito had no idea what was going on, or who this woman was, but he remembered a woman in a white wedding dress in the hall, kneeling next to Chris as Kaito disappeared in a Barian portal-

"You  _were_ married.”

"You sound so surprised."

Despite all common sense dictating otherwise, Kaito laughed quietly. “Sounds like you got over me a lot quicker than I got over you, Chris.”

He expected to be hit; instead, Chris swore under his breath and walked around so he could look down at Kaito. He looked worse for the wear – thinner, paler, with stress lines etched in his face. But he didn’t look at Kaito with disdain. It was softer, almost pitying. “What are you doing here, Kaito? If Vector finds out you’re here-“

"I need to get into the library."

Chris closed his eyes. “Would I get a straight response if I asked why?”

"Do you ever get a straight response out of me?"

"Kaito-"

"I need as much of my family’s genealogy as I can get."

"May I ask why?"

"You may, but I can’t guarantee a straight response for that, either."

Chris rubbed the back of his neck. “Frustrating as always,” he muttered. “It’s too dangerous. Vector and Alasco are both here and both are looking for a way to get ahead of the others.”

Two lords in Astral Kingdom? “What?”

"The River of the Gods runs deep in Sargasso."

Chris and Kaito both turned to the woman – Akari – and Kaito’s mouth opened slightly. “What… did you say?”

"The River of the Gods runs deep in Sargasso," she repeated impatiently, looking up at the ceiling, "so there, I passed on your damn message."

There were no rivers in Sargasso; it was a wasteland for a reason. There was barely any water at all. But this woman wouldn’t have known he was looking for the River of the Gods. She couldn’t have even known what it was. A trap from the Barians? Mizael did have the journal now…

"How did you hear of that place?" Kaito demanded, climbing to his feet as he pushed her sword away.

She huffed, tossing her sword on the bed as she crossed her arms. “My worthless father.”

"And who is your father?" Kaito pressed.

"It doesn’t matter, seeing as he’s dead," she snapped.

"Who is your father?"

She uncrossed her arms and straightened up. She was taller than Kaito by maybe an inch, and he felt the seething indignity of it all. “Kazuma Tsukumo.”

 _Tsukumo…_ Could she be…? “Are you Yuma’s sister?”

At the mention of Yuma’s name, her entire demeanor changed. Her eyes widened – yes, he could see the soft color and shape, similar to Yuma’s, though still slightly different – and her mouth fell open. “You… know Yuma? Do you know where he is?”

He hadn’t seen Yuma since Sargasso. But he didn’t have the heart to tell Akari that Yuma might be dead, even if Yuma didn’t seem to hate him. Besides, if she thought he had contact with her brother, maybe she would be more receptive to helping Kaito. “He’s at the Dragoon Shrine.”

Akari’s shoulders fell, but with relief; she closed her eyes, smiling. “He’s okay. Yuma’s okay.”

"Yeah." Kaito met Chris’s eyes, boring into him as though reading Kaito’s mind. "I can pass along a message to him for you but I really need my family’s genealogy."  _We don’t have to be enemies, Chris._

"I’ll see what I can do," Chris said quietly. "We leave for home in the morning, but I might be able to slip into the library early for you."

The words  _thank you_  tried to form on Kaito’s tongue, but he couldn’t say them, and he simply nodded.

"Tell Yuma something for me," Akari said urgently, grabbing Kaito’s shoulder as he turned to make a portal. "If he doesn’t believe that you talked to me" – her eyes lingered, like so many others’, on his mark – "tell him  _kattobing_. He’ll understand.”

—-

"You really fucked up this time."

Ryoga looked up.

Mara sat in the tall grass under a nearby tree, arms and legs crossed. In a light tunic and trousers, she looked the same as he remembered her, though her face was void of scars.

"I know."

She climbed to her feet, stretching. “You’re not surprised to see me.”

"There’s not much that will surprise me anymore."

Her hands gripped his shoulders from behind and she rubbed them gently. “Did you really think there was a way to save Rio?”

"I hoped."

"Thinking the gods would make exception for you was only one of your fuck-ups."

"You won’t be reborn." It wasn’t a question. He’d known all along that without a race to be born in _to_ , none of his people would receive that cyclical promise of rebirth.

"Nah. We’ve all been hanging out here for over a decade." She plopped next to him and they stared off at the endless sea of waving grasslands in front of them.

"What is it like? Death?"

"Boring as hell." Mara laughed at her own joke and she slapped his back jovially. "We can go anywhere we want, can create any environment. Visit loved ones. At first I went hiking. But it’s not the same here." She slammed her fist into her thigh. "You can’t feel pain here. There’s no burning in your lungs, no weight in your legs as you strain to drag yourself up a steep mountain path, no blisters when you take off your boots. There’s no satisfaction when you reach the top." She lifted her face to the wind. Her short red hair tangled around her face. "I want the rush of blood in my ears as I charge into battle. I want the energy coursing through me as I race up a mountain; I want to feel the burn in my lungs and the lead in my legs and the warm blood pouring from my wounds." Her smile was different, without the scars. For a moment, she looked sixteen again and eager for her first fight. "You’re not dead, though."

Ryoga plucked a long blade of grass and twirled it in his fingers. “My body isn’t mine anymore. I gave up that right.”

She shoved him. He lost balance and toppled over. “You can still see and think and feel. If you try hard enough, you can gain control of your body again. You gonna let the gods dance you around forever?”

He pushed himself back to a sitting position. “Do they know you’re talking to me?”

There it was again, the crooked grin. “As long as I don’t go as far as Kazuma Tsukumo went. Last time he talked to you, the gods prohibited him from seeing his wife for the next thirty years.”

Ryoga’s stomach clenched. Maybe it was an artificial feeling in this place, though. “That’s terrible.”

"Yeah, well. Thirty years is kind of a grain of sand in the hourglass of eternity." She fell on her back and gazed up at the lazily drifting clouds in the sky. "Gets the point across. No one wants to help him."

"Except you."

"I wanted to see you again."

"Mara…" He didn’t want to explain Yuma to her. But somehow he knew that he didn’t have to.

"I know."

They watched the clouds together. Ryoga wondered. What became of their unborn children? Were they here, or in Hell, or with Rio in the world between worlds? Did they exist at all? Before he could ask, Mara took his hand and looked over at him.

"Shark Drake is going to do something terrible with your body," she murmured.

"Like what?"

"I can’t say." She held up their hands and smiled again, humorlessly, before letting go. "But you have to get enough control of your body back to stop him, or Yuma is gonna die."


	47. Counterattack

It was there; he could see it, he could almost touch it. But the life-giving energy of the Astral World, a swirling mass of light and power, was just out of reach.

“You know what’s causing this, don’t you?”

Astral opened his eyes. Sitting across from him, a grinning shadow tilted its head at him. He’d heard the voice for a few days now, ever since the Kamishiros… well, ever since he had been unable to commune with the gods. But he had never seen this creature before; it was like looking at his shadow if his shadow had human features. “Who are you?”

“You.”

“ _What_ are you?”

The shadow’s grin widened. “I am the physical embodiment of your doubts and fears and suspicions and hatreds.”

“This is just a dream.” Astral uncrossed his legs and stood from his spot on the prayer mat. It had been another unsuccessful attempt to reach the Astral World, and he badly needed counsel. There was too much going on that he didn’t understand. “Or a hallucination.”

A quiet giggle escaped the shadow. It sounded too much like Astral’s own laugh for his comfort. “Ah yes, the typical human response to things they want to reject.  _I’m dreaming_.” He leaned on Astral’s shoulder, and carried no pressure. “Haven’t you heard me? As your doubts and suspicions grow, so does my power. Before too long, I will be stronger than you.”

“Astral?”

Yuma stood at the doorway to the small prayer chamber, sword at his waist. The stress lines on his face didn’t suit him in the slightest. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to ask if you wanted to get some fresh air.” Yuma’s eyes narrowed as he peered around the room. “I thought I heard you talking, though. Did I interrupt your prayers?”

“Oh  _my_ ,” the shadow whispered into Astral’s ear. “I feel so much doubt now. Do you not trust Yuma anymore?”

“No,” Astral managed to say, though he didn’t know who he was answering. There was  _something_  Yuma was keeping from him. He knew it by the way Yuma wouldn’t quite meet his eyes now, and by the brief conversations they had, so different from the heartfelt expressions they once shared. “I- I’m fine. I think I need some rest.”

“Okay.” Yuma looked down and sighed. “Rest well, my prince.”

“Thank you.”

Astral waited until the door shut behind Yuma to close his eyes and slink back to his knees on the mat. “Leave me,” he whispered. “I need to pray.” Not that he expected to get anywhere with it this time. He was too distracted to clear his mind enough to achieve the level of focus he needed to connect to that energy he longed to feel.

The shadow laughed, its voice ringing through the chamber. “Good luck getting anything out of those misers in the Astral World. They can’t find two collective damns to rub together when it comes to their puppets.” It settled back next to Astral. “And you’re the biggest puppet of them all.”

—-

When Durbe entered the room where four of the other six lords waited, there was a hint of relief in his otherwise strained expression. Polara couldn’t tell if it was relief that Vector wasn’t here or if it was something else that had finally gone right for him.

“You’re the one who called this meeting and you’re late for it.” Ilya’s normally manicured fingernails clenched and unclenched on her robes. The paint on them was chipped, and from her seat in the middle of the room, Polara saw that some of them were uneven.

“My apologies,” Durbe murmured, taking his seat next to Ilya. “I’ve had a couple of… surprises to attend to today.”

“Nothing too upsetting, I hope,” Koche said evenly.

“A grain ship from Heartland arrived on the dock last night,” Durbe replied without looking at him. “Unfortunately, no one on board arrived alive.”

There was an audible  _thud_  as Ilya’s head hit the back of her chair. She closed her eyes and groaned. “Was it the ship Mizael put him on?”

“Yes. That’s why I called this meeting.” Durbe pulled a folded, bloodstained piece of paper from an inner pocket. “You see, Heartland was the sole survivor.”

“Didn’t you say no one survived?” Koche crossed his arms.

“I said no one  _arrived_ alive.” Durbe passed the paper to Polara. As she unfolded it, wrinkling her nose at the blood smears, he settled back in his chair. “Lord Heartland was set off on this ship but did not arrive at port, dead _or_ alive.”

There was a rough scrawl on the paper.  _The Barian Lords will pay for taking our king from us. Do not pretend that the blood we have spilled is greater than the blood Lord Durbe spilled in the Dragoon Village, or the buildings we have burned more destructive than the bodies that blistered under Lord Ilya’s flames. We know that you sacrificed an entire village of your own people, so many years ago, and we know that at least one among you murdered another lord to take his place. We are not ignorant of your sins. And you will reap what you have sown._

Polara passed it to Koche, keeping her face blank. “Where did you find this?”

“Crumpled up on the ship captain’s body.” Durbe slouched in his chair. He hadn’t slept in quite some time, it seemed. “My sins are… well-known by many. But what does it mean that one of us murdered another lord to take their place? Or this… sacrifice?”

Koche thrust the paper at Pherka, eye twitching. “It seemed to suggest that the sacrifice was done collectively, by all of the lords.  _You_ sacrificed. You, collective. Not one lord, as this has already singled out Ilya and Durbe.”

“That is not the case,” Pherka said tonelessly, standing up to pass it back to Ilya. “Durbe said himself that his exploits are well-known. As are Ilya’s. But it was vague on which lord allegedly murdered another. And none of us authorized a sacrifice of an entire village.”

“An attempt to divide us?” Ilya murmured.

Durbe nodded slowly. “Possibly. But if I may be so blunt… we are already dividing.” He traced a finger absently along his face markings. “Vector disappears for weeks and doesn’t tell anyone where he went. Alasco plays with the eldest Arclight brother and his new wife.” He closed his eyes. “God knows what the rest of us are planning.”

“You admit to scheming behind our backs, then?” Koche’s voice held more than a bite of anger.

“Don’t pretend you’re blameless,” Ilya said tartly, hands clenching the arms of her chair. “All of us have our own plans. That’s hardly a secret.”

“You-”

“That’s enough,” Polara interjected over Koche’s retort. “This will get us nowhere. Who knew about Lord Heartland?”

Durbe folded his hands. “I did, as did Mizael… and Lord Ilya.”

“Mizael, Mizael, it’s  _always_ Mizael.” Koche exhaled sharply. “Does anyone notice how every time something disadvantageous happens, Mizael’s involved somehow?”

“And every time Mizael’s involved in something, I am as well.” Durbe stared at Koche with narrowed eyes. “You accuse my general, and you accuse me. We’ve been over this.”

Koche snorted. “You  _just_ said that you’re planning something. Makes sense that Mizael’s in on it.”

“Fuya,” Ilya said suddenly, hands clenching around the paper. “Damn it. Lieutenant Okudaira was in the room when we were talking about what to do with Heartland. And I know he’s been heading into the city.  _God_.”

“I told you to kill him,” Pherka said sullenly.

Ilya ran her fingers through her hair. “I didn’t even think… no, this is my doing. I’ll deal with him, and Lord Heartland.” Ilya threw the crumpled paper as it burst into flames. “Pherka, if you don’t mind, would you assist me in the kingdom with putting down the rebellions?”

Pherka inclined her head. “Fine.”

Polara’s own hands flexed against her chair. She’d been a lord the longest, had watched the others die and be replaced. Three of them had died in battle, and three of natural causes. Had they really been  _murdered_ …? And this alleged sacrifice. She had certainly never authorized it, nor was she even aware such a thing had happened. She would look into it. “Very well. Ilya and Pherka will deal with Heartland. Durbe, how are things in Tenjo?”

“Going about as well as can be reasonably expected,” Durbe murmured. “It was a largely peaceful transition, all things considered.”

“And Lord Kaito?”

Durbe was quiet for a moment. “I’ll deal with him.”

“What of the search for Prince Astral?”

“You’ll have to ask Vector how that’s going.” Durbe stood. “I have things to do now. Thank you all for meeting.”

Ilya followed him out the door, muttering to herself, Pherka at her heels. Koche made no movement to stand.

“What do you think?” Polara said softly.

“Something else is going on,” Koche said, rubbing his chin irritably. “How would any run-of-the-mill rebels know any of the things they said in that paper?”

Koche had been a general before Lord Rion was killed in battle, and took the lord’s place. It was fairly well-publicized in the Barian Kingdom; the funerary procession and coronation ceremonies had occurred the same afternoon. But the average human wouldn’t have known about the goings-on in the Barian Kingdom.  _Average_  humans, maybe. Those with connections, however… “Maybe these aren’t your run-of-the-mill rebels after all.”

—-

Stars blazed like candlelight against the moonless night sky; the air was cool and still when Yuma sat next to Anna, hunched over on a step halfway down the stone staircase. She clenched a handful of her short hair in one hand as she stared with narrowed eyes at the rocky grounds of the Shrine.

“This isn’t usually what he’s like,” he said softly, staring up at the sky. The large plough didn’t seem as bright as the other stars. How unusual; it was always the one constellation he saw clearer than the rest.

Anna shook her head and let out a quiet noise of disbelief. “No, he’s rude and crass and an asshole, but he’s not a suicidal moron. Generally.”

Yuma tried to smile and failed. “He taught me many things. The stars, for instance. Did you know that all seven Barian lords have names that come from the large and small ploughs?”

“That’s very nice of you to remind me that the Barians are always watching us.” She shifted on the cold, uncomfortable stair. “What’s up with him?”

“He’s… been through more than any of us can possibly understand.” A vague answer, but Anna didn’t need to know how or why Rio died. Yuma had thought he understood Ryoga’s pain, thought he had offered Ryoga some temporary semblance of comfort – had hoped that Ryoga meant every word he whispered to Yuma, promises that caused Yuma to cry because he wanted them to be true with all his heart – but he had been wrong.

“Do you…” Anna faltered, took a deep breath, and tried again. “Do you think he wants to die?”

The sight of Ryoga lying unconscious on the floor of the Shrine, covered in his own blood, was all Yuma could see. “Why do you think that?”

Anna tilted her head at him, brows furrowed concernedly. “His plan is going to lead you all to your deaths. You see it too. But you’re still going to follow him.”

_“Lieutenant.”_

_The captain stood behind him, wrapped tightly in his cloak against the bitter mountain air. Yuma shifted so the captain could join him on the greenstone. They sat in silence for a moment, looking down the empty mountain path._

_“I told you I wanted you to go command the western command outpost.” The captain loosed his grip on his cloak._

_It had been both an honor and a disappointment to receive that message. An honor because the captain had enough faith in him that he could command and not simply assist. But Yuma had grown to love the palace, and the company he kept there._

_“I’ve changed my mind.”_

_Yuma glanced sideways. “Do you not think I can handle it, Captain?”_

_“I know you can handle it.” The captain rummaged through his sidepack and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I have a mission for you first. Will you accompany the Captain-Commander on a mission to Arclight?”_

“I’ve followed him through worse.” Yuma ignored the teardrops clinging to his lower eyelashes. He clenched the hilt of the sword at his waist. It was, stunningly enough, his father’s; he hadn’t yet asked Ryoga where it came from. “I’ll go wherever he wants me to go.” He could hear the words he whispered to Mara that night.  _Is this war?_ Watching people he cared for and loved die around him, feeling the pain in his heart and his body.  _It’s hell._  And it  _was_ hell. He’d lost his entire family. He’d lost his friends and comrades. He’d lost his king and queen and kingdom and faith and purpose.

Why did he even fight anymore?

“Even if you die?” Anna’s voice was a whisper.

“I trust him.” The words were hollow. Did he really trust Ryoga Kamishiro anymore, when he shattered every shard of hope left in Yuma’s heart? “I trust that he knows what the best thing to do is.”

“The best thing.” Anna stood up, shaking her head. “I am leaving in the morning, going back down this mountain, and never thinking about you lunatics ever again. Nothing about the captain’s plan is  _the best thing_ for anyone. Not for you. Not for him. Not for any of us. Gods.” She ran her hands through her hair and closed her eyes. “Did anyone besides me hear how absurdly  _stupid_ the captain’s plan is? Waltzing into the Astral Palace and using you as bait to get close enough to kill Lord Vector with that plant? _Seriously_?”

“We’re not  _waltzing in_ ,” Yuma said tonelessly, but, well, she wasn’t exactly wrong on that account.

“Oh, right, excuse me.” Anna threw her hands out, gesturing at the forest theatrically. “I forgot about the part where you fight your way through Lord Vector’s security force and conveniently ignore the fact that he’s a goddamn _Barian emperor_.”

She wasn’t wrong about that, either. Yuma didn’t have a rebuttal. What could he even say?

“The weapons are a little bit away from the Arena,” Anna said, turning to head back into the Shrine. “A blacksmith named Tetsuo has them. Just don’t drag him into your madness too.”

Yuma let her go. If he had the weapons, this blacksmith was already entangled in their fate, and no matter how hard Anna tried to fight it, so was she.

—-

A door slammed, echoing through the otherwise quiet forest. Twigs snapped underfoot as Thomas Arclight stormed from the tiny hut built into a hillside. Another set of footprints followed, quieter.

“Brother-”

“Remind me again why we saved that worthless monster’s life.” Thomas slammed his foot down, shattering a branch. “All he’s done since we raided that ship is whine about how we’re treating him.”

He had never seen Mihael roll his eyes, but the slight flicker across his brother’s face might have been a close contender. “If we defeat the Barians-”

“- _when_ -“

“-there will be a need to reestablish each kingdom’s original government,” Mihael went on, ignoring his brother completely. “Lord Heartland may have questionable ethics, but he did run the economy with a degree of efficiency.”

Thomas snorted. “ _Questionable ethics_. The only ethics more questionable than Heartland’s are the pirate’s and his thieving murderous crew.”

“Yamikawa has done a great deal to help us,” Mihael said lightly. “Taking the credit for capturing Lord Heartland has allowed us to distance ourselves from this rebellion.”

Mihael was right about that, but it didn’t make the entire situation any less repulsive. Thomas scratched at his elbow and scowled at a maple tree. “When is Chris heading back?”

“Sometime this morning, I believe.” Mihael looked up at the soft golden sky.

“I don’t like this.”

“I don’t either. But if we don’t act, the Barians will win.”

Thomas barely heard Yamikawa approaching until the pirate cleared his throat. “We’re about done, my lord.”

“Good. We don’t have a lot of time.” Thomas touched the scar on his face. It stung, even after three Healers and no fewer than eight different ointments had been forced on it. When they defeated the Barians, he would have to meet up with Captain Kamishiro again to thank him properly. “Don’t get caught.”

“I’ve been in this business for fifteen years.” Yamikawa flashed an unnervingly predatory grin at Thomas. “I won’t get caught.”

“This isn’t a normal raid,” Mihael reminded him curtly. “There will be a Barian emperor aboard that ship.”

“Good.” Yamikawa fingered his cutlass. “I look forward to meeting him.”

—-

The sun was rising as Vector made his way down the crimson carpeted hallway to the library. Crimson not only suited the marble better, but made the bloodstains – remnants of the massacre here just a couple of short months ago – less noticeable. They wouldn’t wash out of the walls, no matter how many people Vector got to scrub the marble clean. It was better this way.

The enormous stained glass windows cast eerie shadows across the bookshelves. The high ceiling made the room echo so that each step he took in his slippers sounded as if he were wearing heavy boots. And yet Vector felt comfortable here. It was a library larger by far than even the one in Arclight. Astral Kingdom was, after all, a research center. But he wasn’t here to research, not at this hour. No, he was here because he suspected that the Arclight son and his wife were up to something.

There was a soft crinkle of paper, the faint sound of a paper being torn from a book, and indistinguishable whispers. As Vector rounded a corner into the section of the library dealing with genealogies, he found a bleary-eyed Akari Tsukumo standing petrified behind a table, standing over a frayed book, with Christopher Arclight at her side.

“Good morning,” he said, folding his hands neatly over his night robes. “Aren’t you leaving today?”

“We’re… just…” Akari shot a terrified look at her husband.

“Doing research,” Chris said, face calm. “We and Lord Alasco are scheduled to leave on the next ship out, but this library has resources that ours does not. We thought we would take advantage of it while we still had time.”

Vector silently counted to ten. He enjoyed the tenseness, the way the woman bit her lip and tried to look everywhere but at him. “What about?”

“The Dragoons. The Kamishiro twins.” Chris was certainly improving when it came to controlling his expression when he lied. “They were supposedly travelling with Prince Astral, so we thought…”

“…we would learn everything we can about them to see if we can find them.”

When he had first learned that they were to be wed, Vector thought Chris’s desperate choice of wife to be amusing. An uncultured country girl – the daughter of a gullible fool and the sister of a naïve idealist – with a short temper and no self-control was not fit to be a queen. But she learned, and quickly. They trusted each other now; not out of friendship, but necessity. An interesting team. “Were you successful?”

“Not very,” Chris said curtly, resting his hand on Akari’s shoulder as he led her past Vector toward the door. “This book is thirty years out of date. Excuse us.”

Vector waited until they left before he walked over to the book, open to a random page about an inconsequential family. He didn’t need to flip more than a few pages to note that one page had been hastily ripped out. He slipped one finger under the book and flicked it shut. The faded lettering on the front read  _Families of the Holy Order of Dragoons._

“Oh?” He couldn’t help but giggle. “Looking for information on the Kamishiros, are you?” He tucked the book under his arm and headed toward the door. “I didn’t know  _Kamishiro_ started with the letter  _S._ ”


	48. Distant Souls

Something had finally gone  _right_.

With a single piece of bloodstained paper, Durbe had managed to sow the seeds of suspicion among the other lords and place the blame for Heartland’s disappearance solely on Ilya. He didn’t know whether it was true that his village had been offered as a sacrifice for something, or whether any of the lords had murdered their predecessors, though he had reason to believe it had happened. It was a risky play, but the payoff was better than Durbe could have hoped for. Ilya was now the one faced with failure and Polara was on edge that there might be more going on in their ranks than she thought. He doubted it would have gone so smoothly had Vector or Alasco been at the meeting.

Mizael sat alone at the back of the library at Arclight, hunched over the journal he took from Kaito, half a dozen maps spread around him. His human form was always so easy to read – he bit his lower lip and fiddled with the ornament in his hair when he was anxious – but there was an added layer of exhaustion in his shadowed eyes.

“How did it go?”

Durbe sat next to Mizael and pulled a map closer. Judging by the geopolitical boundaries etched in faded ink, it was at least three hundred years old, and the corners flaked off in his fingers. “It worked.”

Mizael rested his forehead on the palm of his hand and closed his eyes. “Even Alasco bought it?”

“No,” Durbe mused, peering at the tiny scrawls on the map, accented with Mizael’s equally tiny scrawls. “Vector and Alasco were missing. But if they _were_  there, Alasco would have accused the two of us of plotting treason for the nine hundredth time and Vector would have convinced the others to take control of Tenjo or Arclight or both from me. The blame for everything from last year’s Baria Crystal shortage to Alasco’s favorite hunting dog having a sneezing fit would have been placed squarely on my shoulders.”

The corners of Mizael’s mouth twitched. “How I would love to see Alasco’s face when he finds out he was right about us the whole time.”

 _He’s not right about_ everything. “Your face is pale again. How are you feeling?”

As quickly as the smile appeared, it was gone. Mizael wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I was getting dizzy and hot again in my body.”

Durbe reached over and brushed Mizael’s hair from his sweat-soaked forehead. “How long have you felt like this?”

Mizael muttered something that sounded vaguely like “a few days.”

“ _Mizael-_ ”

“Don’t take out that knife again, Durbe,” Mizael said softly, grabbing Durbe’s wrist.

Durbe thought they had cured Mizael, but clearly some of the poison lingered in Mizael’s body. “You should have told me. Immediately.”

“And force me to drink more of your blood?” Mizael exhaled slowly. “I won’t do it.”

“You’re of no use to me dead.”

Mizael arched an eyebrow. “Well, neither are you.”

Durbe pulled off his glasses and rubbed his face. “Fine. Don’t revert into your body for a few days. If it doesn’t get better by then, I will tie you to the bed and force it down your throat.”

“I didn’t know you were into that.”

Durbe resisted rolling his eyes with effort. “Don’t be difficult.”

“Then don’t coddle me.”

He wasn’t here to bicker with Mizael, good-natured or no. He was concerned; if Mizael became sick again, there wasn’t a chance they could complete their goals. They had so much to accomplish and no time. “Have you discovered anything about the legend?”

Mizael placed his hand to his facial markings, which stood out more than usual against his pale skin. “Durbe, I think I figured out why no one has ever come close to finding the Dragon.” He looked at Durbe with an expression of curiosity. “The legend isn’t universal. I don’t… think it’s even a legend.”

“I don’t understand.”

Mizael pulled Kaito’s journal closer and pointed at a small portion of one stanza.

 _The broken soul,_  
_A weary warrior approaches the Mountain of the Gods_  
_Seeking penance, offering a soul with his blood._

“It’s a prophecy,” Mizael explained. “This isn’t about just anyone. It’s about a broken soul. Offering his soul with blood. And when he wields his sword…”

Durbe was barely aware of Mizael’s hand gripping his or of Mizael’s other hand lifting the sleeve of Durbe’s robes. “He will strike down the kings and a new king will be born.”

“It’s about us.” Mizael ran his hand down Durbe’s arm, the scar from that fateful night in the library long since faded, but a new one had taken its place. “I’m the broken soul. I offered myself to you with my blood. My life, my loyalty, and… I would… if…” He turned his head, hand releasing Durbe’s so it could play with the ornament in his hair again. “If you ask… my soul is yours, Durbe.”  

Durbe had known all along – they both had – but hearing the words spoken out loud made it  _real_. And it wasn’t fair, that they could have  _this_  and be unable to act on it. But if the other lords thought it was happening already, and simple rumor could ruin them… wouldn’t it be worth it, lest they lose this chance forever? “Mizael,” he said in a soft voice, wrapping his fingers around the hand playing with the dangling ornament, “what if-”

The door opened, and Durbe was glad that he and Mizael had taken up their research in the back of the library, hidden from view of the door. It gave them enough time to situate themselves a professional distance from the other and clear their expressions of pathetic longing before the servant rounded a bookcase and handed Durbe a note, Durbe’s name written on the outside in slanted letters.

“From Lady Pherka,” he said, bowing deeply before scurrying off.

Durbe waited until the servant was gone before he ripped open the letter. “It’s been half an hour, what the hell could possibly have-”

_Stadium is on fire. Rebels attempting to break into the palace. Can’t contact Vector. Need assistance doing so. –Pherka_

With a sigh, Durbe tossed the letter on the table. Mizael glanced at it and shook with silent laughter.

“It’s not funny,” Durbe said irritably.

“Charming, how they need help, can’t get a hold of Vector, and inform you that they need  _you_  to find him,” Mizael said, making notations in the journal. “You should ask them to just slap you in the face next time.”

Durbe’s powers were vastly inferior to those of the other lords; that was no secret. He couldn’t exactly help it, either. Growing up in a place like Sargasso, where Baria Crystal was practically nonexistent, stunted his growth in many ways. But the other lords rarely reminded him of this fact. Not like this. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“You’re not going to help them, are you?” Mizael half-turned in his chair.

“We can’t let Heartland fall to the rebels,” Durbe muttered, grabbing the note again. “I’m just going to pass along this message to  _Lord Vector_ and I’ll be right back.”

—-

The paper they had acquired from the library was tucked deep into Akari’s pack as they boarded the ship bound for home –  _for Arclight_ , Akari reminded herself, because she was  _leaving_ her home again – but Chris wasn’t relieved that they were leaving. Nor was he relieved when the ship’s captain informed them that Lord Alasco had decided at the last minute that he wasn’t going to be joining them. In fact, if she didn’t know better, she’d say he was disappointed. Akari couldn’t figure that out, either; she was ecstatic that she wasn’t going to have to listen to Alasco tell her stories about how gullible and foolish her father had been in trusting a Barian. And she was certainly glad she wouldn’t be forced to watch Alasco reenact her father’s murder for the fourth time.

A light drizzle fell on the deck as the ship departed from the pier. It was a cold rain; late spring in the north was much different than it was south of the mountains. It didn’t seem to bother Chris. He stood on the deck, arms crossed and eyes narrowed at the trees lining the river ahead of them. When she asked what was bothering him, he simply told her she should go below deck and get some sleep.

She went below deck, but she did not sleep. Instead, she rummaged around in her personal belongings and pulled the paper out. Chris was on edge, and had been since Vector had found them in the library. Akari still didn’t understand why a page of Dragoon genealogy had anything to do with Kaito; half the page was blotted out, anyway. There was something vaguely familiar about the family surname, which wasn’t  _Tenjo_. But then, from the little Chris had told her, one of Kaito’s female ancestors had been from the Astral Kingdom before moving to the Tenjo kingdom and marrying into the royal family. Her family name would have been different from Tenjo.

“I can’t believe I’m even entertaining this idea,” she muttered, thrusting the crumpled paper back into her pack. “Only nobles marry royalty.” She fiddled absently with her thin wedding band. What if Kaito’s ancestor had been kidnapped and forced to be married? Things like that happened. Even to Dragoons, probably. Except even Dragoon children were taught how to kill from the time they could walk, or so she’d heard, and she doubted a Dragoon woman of marriageable age would be taken captive and forced to marry a noble from a distant kingdom without putting up a fight.

She threw herself onto the bed and glared at the roof of the cabin. Her stomach sloshed uncomfortably; she still hadn’t gotten used to the rocking motion of the ship. Something seemed to be happening on the deck, as well. Alongside the sound of rain that was now steadily pattering against the porthole and deck, feet pounded on the creaky wooden beams. More feet than belonged to the small crew of this ship.

She sat up slowly and strained her ears to hear the muffled voices above, but she couldn’t make out clear words. Her father had once told her and Yuma stories of river pirates attacking cargo ships, but this… wasn’t a cargo ship. It was far too small to be a cargo ship, and if it was river pirates, they would know the difference, right?

Cautiously, she climbed off the bed, slipping off her boots to minimize the noise, and climbed the short staircase to the cabin door.

“…promised he would be here,” a voice was hissing.

“They very well may have lied to us. After all, they have been working with _them_  all this time,” another, much calmer, voice responded.

Akari frowned, ear pressed to the door. They were promised  _who_  would be here? Who were  _they_?

“What do we do with them? We can’t just leave now or it will be suspicious.”

“I’m sure we can find  _some_  use for the future king and queen of Arclight.” The voice sounded amused.

Her heart pounded as she slowly descended the staircase. She didn’t know whether they were pirates or assassins or kidnappers, but any way she looked at it, they seemed to be in even more trouble than before.

—-

Knitting was… relaxing. Vector was dreadful at it, but the repetitive motions gave him something to do while he pondered things. He didn’t feel like opening Pherka’s letter, because it was doubtless some kind of nagging reminder that he should come to meetings and how the lords were  _supposed to be a unanimous council, which we can’t do if one or more of our lords is consistently absent from meetings._  That, or the city was burning to the ground, and Vector couldn’t really be bothered to deal with that sort of thing at the moment. Not when he was only halfway through a scarf for darling Miza.

The door to the reading chambers opened. “Vector.”

“Durbie.” Vector sighed. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

Durbe stopped abruptly in front of Vector’s settee and wordlessly thrust out a piece of paper. Vector glanced at it and rolled his eyes before returning to his knitting. “You can set it with the other one I didn’t read.” He held up the lump of yarn that vaguely resembled a scarf. “Do you think Miza would look good in this shade of yellow or should I try a nice goldenrod to accent his hair?”

“You have responsibilities,” Durbe said curtly, dropping the letter in front of Vector.

“Yes, I know, but the commemorative day when Miza’s parents brought forth their deformed monster son into the world is coming up soon and I really wanted to finish his present first.” At Durbe’s set jaw and clenched fists, Vector sighed and set aside his project. “I’m not leaving for anything less than the world ending.”

“Heartland City is on fire.” Durbe’s eyes lingered on a small portrait on the fireplace mantel. Vector waited for him to ask why he had the Tsukumo family’s portrait – it was a nice portrait, and gave Vector so much inspiration, seeing how tightknit and happy the family had once been before half the family died and the other half ended up thrown in the middle of a conflict they wanted nothing to do with (Akari being forced to wed Lord Christopher must have been a fate worse than death, Vector decided) – but Durbe apparently decided that the issue of the Heartland Kingdom going down in flames was somewhat more important at the moment. “Rebels are trying to break into the palace. Pherka and Ilya request your assistance.”

 _Ugh_. Vector dragged a clawed finger down his face. “Why can’t  _you_  do it?”

“You’ll have to ask Pherka.” Durbe turned to leave, but Vector wasn’t about to let Durbe get out of this one.

“Have you used that map I gave you yet?”

Durbe cast a glare laden with suspicion at Vector. “What did you expect me to do with  _the prince and his friends are at the Dragoon Shrine_ , Vector?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe…” Vector held out his hands and shrugged. “Go after them?”

“Of course,” Durbe said tonelessly. “I’ll get right on that.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, you know.” Vector examined his nails, uneven around the edges. They needed a good manicure again.

“The Shrine is warded, as you very well know, or you would have gone after them yourself.” Durbe crossed his arms.

“Which didn’t stop you from decimating the Dragoon Village all those years ago.” It was the one piece of Durbe’s puzzle that Vector couldn’t put together. The Barians had tried for  _centuries_  to get into the village, and Durbe had managed to make it look easy, effectively destroying it overnight. “Can’t you just do… whatever it was you did that time?”

“It took years of planning,” Durbe said in a quiet voice after a moment of silence. “Which, in case you hadn’t noticed, I do not have. Good day.”

Vector let him go and returned to his knitting, which he wanted to finish up with before going to Heartland. One of these days, he would figure out how Durbe managed to singlehandedly scheme up the demise of the Dragoon race. “But then,” he whispered with a giggle, “you’ve  _already_  got quite the juicy backstory, haven’t you, Durbiekins?”

—-

It rained for two days.

Rain usually wasn’t a problem for Kaito; back home, he welcomed rain. It brought relief to farmers and provided respite from the heat in the southern parts of the kingdom. But climbing up a steep mountainside with torrents of water cascading down the same rocks he was trying to climb while turning the dirt into a thick mud that that sucked his boots in like quicksand was a nightmare. Not to mention that this northern mountain rain was frigid, though it was approaching late spring. It made what should have been a half-day trek last four times as long, and with nothing dry enough to catch fire, he was certain he was going to get sick from the exposure to the cold. Nothing edible even grew this far up this time of the year except juniper berries, and Kaito pried at least four ticks from his drenched clothing. He was frozen to the bone, starving, exhausted, and filthy, and the Kamishiros owed him for this.

When he reached the rather flat summit, he leaned against a scraggly fir and grimaced. His chest was throbbing again, but whether it was from the exertion of climbing the mountain or an onset of a lung affliction, he didn’t know. All he cared about was getting inside next to a fire with a hot meal as soon as possible and out of these wet clothes.

He didn’t even set foot on the bottom stair leading up into the Shrine before a cloakless Yuma Tsukumo blocked his path, a sword aimed at Kaito’s throat.

Even if he had the energy to draw his sword, he wasn’t sure his numb fingers would have been able to hold the hilt properly. He stood there as Yuma, sopping hair plastered to his red face, unsheathed Kaito’s sword and tossed it onto a stair behind him like he was dropping a viper.

“Why are you here?” Yuma’s soft voice lacked any force, despite the steadiness with which he held the sword.

“I needed to talk to Prince Astral and the Dragoons,” Kaito said wearily.

He didn’t miss Yuma’s slight flinch. “About?”

“None of-” He grimaced as the edge of Yuma’s sword pressed into the side of his neck and decided not to finish his sentence. “Let me inside. It’s freezing.”

“Not until you tell me why you’re here.”

“I told you-” Kaito began through gritted teeth.

“And I told you,  _my lord_ , not until you tell me  _why_.”

He didn’t know Yuma well, only from their brief few meetings, but this behavior was uncharacteristically more like Ryoga than it was Yuma. “My kingdom has fallen to the Barians.”

The sword loosened slightly, just as a woman said Yuma’s name in a high-pitched voice and the Healer woman – Kotori – arrived behind Kaito from the grounds of the Shrine with the wild woman Cathy at her side.

Yuma’s attention shifted, his expression solemn as Kotori gently pushed the sword away from Kaito’s neck. “Why were you outside, Kotori? It’s freezing.”

“We were…” Kotori looked down, eyes filling with tears.

“Putting flowers on top of the place where Rio’s body is becoming one with the earth again,” Cathy supplied helpfully.

Yuma flinched again and Kotori buried her face in her hands and hurried up the stairs into the Shrine. Kaito’s mind reeled. “Rio’s… body?” Could it be true that Ryoga was now the sole living Dragoon?

“She died almost half a moon ago,” Cathy said, looking down at her feet. She alone seemed unfazed by the frigid rain, but from what Kaito had gathered about her a few weeks ago, she had lived in the northern mountains for her entire life. She was probably used to it. “It’s very sad.” She followed Kotori up the stairs.

 _Very sad_  was an understatement; Yuma wiped a stream of water from his face and bit his lip. Rio had been Yuma’s friend just the same as Ryoga was – though, Kaito realized with a jolt of realization, Yuma’s relationship with Ryoga might have been a  _bit_  different – and even though Kaito hadn’t known the twins for very long, or had a good relationship with them most of the time, he had considered Rio… not a friend, perhaps, but an ally. But then, maybe a friend. She was always much more polite toward him than Ryoga was, at any rate. Kaito had only ever considered Chris a friend before everything happened. A friend was someone he could trust, as far as he was concerned, and even if he didn’t  _like_  the Dragoons, he at least trusted them.

And now Rio was dead.

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Yuma said in a barely audible voice. He failed to sheathe his sword three times before his shaking hand managed to place it in its scabbard. “Get out of the rain.”

He turned to follow the women inside but Kaito was still curious. Maybe he shouldn’t say anything about it at all, but Rio’s time of death at least explained…

“Was it as enjoyable for you as it was for him?”

Yuma’s foot froze mid-step.

So he was right. It didn’t explain how or why he had felt the entire thing, or why Kaito had apparently gone into a seizure the next morning. He couldn’t remember any of it, and he could no longer feel the strange draw he had once felt toward the captain, like ropes pulling him back. But this explained a great deal.

“Damn hypocrite,” Kaito muttered. “He had no right to act like the morally superior one when he broke his oaths for another man.”

He was about to make a snide comment about how Ryoga felt overwhelming guilt over it the next morning so it must not have been as good as Ryoga had hoped for, but he didn’t have the chance before Yuma turned, walked down the stairs back to Kaito, and nailed him in the jaw with his fist.

The force of the blow caught Kaito off-balance as he fell painfully on his back into the frozen mud on the ground, the taste of blood filling his mouth. Yuma’s hand grasped the hilt of his sword just as the door to the Shrine opened and Ryoga hurried down the steps in nothing but his nightclothes. As Yuma lifted the sword, face lined in anger and – Kaito knew this look all too well – anguish, Ryoga grabbed him by the wrist.

“That’s enough,” Ryoga said in a dangerously quiet voice.

Yuma’s jaw tightened, but he pried free from Ryoga and stormed back upstairs into the Shrine without another word. Kaito’s heart thudded painfully; he was sure from the look in Yuma’s eyes that he would have hurt if not killed Kaito had Ryoga not intervened.

“Get up,” Ryoga said in that same voice, heading up after Yuma.

“No snarky remark about me being in my rightful place on my back?” Kaito grunted, rolling over onto his knees. “That’s unlike you.”

There was a complete lack of emotion in the captain’s face as he turned back to Kaito. There was something very, very strange happening right now. “You’re here, which means you’re in trouble again. Get up.” He started walking again. “I have much to discuss with you.”

—-

The shadow – Black Mist, it called itself – sat cross legged on the end table as Astral sat on the bed with Yuma’s cloak in his hands. He didn’t  _want_ to go through Yuma’s pockets, because he knew Yuma kept his journal inside his cloak. It was an invasion of privacy. But Black Mist was right about one thing – Yuma was keeping something from him. Perhaps…

“Why would he write it down if it’s a secret?” Astral whispered, fingers tugging at the clasps on the cloak.

Black Mist rolled its eyes. It must have been Astral’s imagination, but it seemed Black Mist was becoming more… opaque. Even the green markings on Astral’s face were starting to show up on this shadow’s face. “What else do you write in journals, Astral? Besides, why would he feel the need to keep something from you in the first place? Aren’t you in the same boat? The Kamishiros were half-Barians all along and you can’t even trust Yuma anymore… Who  _can_  you trust, mmm? If you can’t find anything in the journal, maybe you’re just being paranoid. Maybe it’s all in your head.” Black Mist laughed, but it no longer sounded like Astral’s voice. It was high-pitched and made Astral shudder.

Reluctantly, he reached into one of the inner pockets. His fingers brushed a leather cord and he pulled out the captain’s fang necklace. Astral didn’t know why Yuma insisted on keeping it, but the captain  _was_ acting odd since  _that night_  and it might have been a reminder for Yuma of the captain he had…

Black Mist let out a quiet  _ah_. “Who would Yuma choose to protect if it came down to it? His captain or his prince?”

Astral ignored Black Mist and slipped the necklace back into the pocket. The journal must be in the other-

He pulled his hand back abruptly as a jolt ran through his fingers. There was something else in there, something… but no.

“But yes,” Black Mist whispered, and it was now hovering over Astral’s shoulder. “Go on, pull it out.”

With trembling fingers, Astral reached back into the pocket and pulled out a tiny charm dangling from a thin cord. Astral resisted the urge to drop it and instead lifted it to eye level.

“Isn’t that a Barian crest?” Black Mist leaned closer to Astral until it was whispering in his ear. It laughed again. “Now why would Yuma have  _that_?”


	49. Kattobing

Kotori found Yuma alone in the kitchen with his back to the door, staring at the glowing coals in the fireplace. His hair was mussed and damp, and from the way his shoulders and elbows moved, he was rubbing his hands together. She sat at the table, upon which sat Yuma’s father’s sword.

“Lord Kaito’s jaw was very nearly broken,” she said conversationally, “but I realigned it without any particular difficulty.”

There was no sound from the man in the chair. She didn’t expect one, exactly.

“He wouldn’t tell me how he was injured, but I suspect he’s coming down with a lung infirmity from being in the rain so long. He coughed up some blood.”

She’d seen Kaito in the hallway, hand to his cheek and a half-scowl on his face as he followed the captain into the Shrine. Ryoga hadn’t cared whether Kaito’s jaw functioned properly or not, but Kotori berated him to no readily apparent effect before she grabbed Kaito’s face and Healed him. He’d pulled away and immediately went into a coughing fit, splattering blood and saliva all over the stone floor. For some reason, Ryoga didn’t even seem surprised; more incredibly, he didn’t make a snide comment. He remained silent as he settled himself on the edge of his bed and gestured for Kotori to put Kaito – now breathing raggedly – in the nearby chair. She didn’t, and left them to discuss whatever it is Ryoga was keen to discuss. Neither wanted her help, that much was clear.

 

Yuma ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. It wasn’t difficult to figure out how Kaito’s jaw ended up the way it had. “I didn’t mean to… hit him. Gods, I’ve never really hit anyone, and I wanted to hurt him so much more.” His shaky laugh had more than a hint of a suppressed sob in it. “I don’t understand, Kotori. I’ve been so… so angry.”

His calloused hand was freezing as Kotori knelt by his chair and gripped it. He gripped hers back weakly. “So much has happened these past few months, Yuma.” She reached up to wipe the streaks of moisture from his face. Not all of it was cold rainwater. “You’re scared. Rio-” A lump welled in her throat and she coughed quietly, struggling to keep her voice from quivering. Yuma’s hand tightened around hers and she took comfort in it as much as she prayed she was comforting Yuma. “Rio’s gone, and the captain is… he’s… I think he’s doing stupid things because he’s lost his purpose and he doesn’t know what else  _to_ do.”

This time, Yuma didn’t suppress his sob as he pulled his hand away and covered his face. She knelt by his side, knees going numb on the cold stone floor, and let him cry. Five minutes passed, ten, fifteen- and he finally looked up again with bloodshot eyes. “I  _am_  scared.”

“Me too,” she murmured, taking his hand again. It was wet and gritty from his salty tears.

“I feel like…” He stared into the faded coals in the fireplace again and knitted his brows as though trying to see something far away. “I don’t want to go back to the Astral Kingdom yet. Not like this.” He turned back to Kotori and gripped her hand with both of his. “It makes my stomach churn, but what the captain has planned… seems like something I  _need_  to do. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all, Kotori. Because I think I’m going to… I have to…”

 _Die_. The word didn’t need to be said aloud. Yuma fought Fate with every decision he made. He wanted to carve out his own future. “You don’t have to do anything, Yuma.”

Yuma tried to take a deep breath and ended up hiccupping instead. “I would rather do whatever  _they_  want me to do than sit around and do nothing.” He wiped his face with his free hand and climbed shakily to his feet. She knew who  _they_ were.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to apologize to Kaito for attacking him.” He narrowed his eyes at the ceiling. “And then I’m going to pray until I can contact the Astral World.”

It was such a long shot that Kotori wasn’t sure Yuma would be able to do it at all. Very few people managed the level of concentration necessary to enter the Astral World in spirit. Yuma’s stress and anxiety and guilt would hinder his progress tremendously. “Why?”

Yuma’s lips twitched in a dry smile. “I have a lot of questions that I want answered before I let them string me along to whatever Fate they’ve had in mind for me from the start.”

—-

A cold, steady drizzle fell on the deck of the ship, percolating through Akari’s dress and doing nothing to make her any less pissed off than she already was. And, given that she had been dragged top deck and tied back-to-back with Chris by what she assumed was a band of river pirates before being settled off to the side of the ship like a large sack of grain, she was plenty pissed.

 “Stop squirming,” Chris muttered. “These knots aren’t going to give for anything less than a blade slicing through them.”

“Our hands are touching. I don’t like it.”

He sighed and she could practically hear him roll his eyes.

Chris was unusually calm through the whole process, not struggling and not even drawing his sword. He didn’t move as a particularly short man with a high voice and annoyingly bright clothing tied them together first, then their feet, all while carrying on a nonsensical conversation with himself under his breath. Now the man stood next to a thin, much taller man wearing a long black coat, caressing a cutlass like it was his child.  _Yamikawa_ , she’d heard the short man call him, and it didn’t mean anything to her but it seemed to mean something to Chris by the way he breathed sharply upon hearing the name.

“He’s an infamous river pirate,” Chris had whispered, and Akari stifled a groan with difficulty. It was one thing after another in her life lately; being kidnapped, imprisoned, tortured, forced into swearing allegiance to a kingdom she couldn’t care less about, marrying this unhelpful man, discovering that her father had been murdered by a Barian lord… and now kidnapped by a river pirate who was apparently very good at what he did.

“We’re in quite an unpleasant situation,” Yamikawa said after watching them from the ship railing for a while.

“Tell me about it.”

“What do you hope to achieve by taking us prisoner?” Chris said as though Akari hadn’t spoken. “I’m sure you’ve heard about my father. He will never pay any sum to get me back.”

“Maybe  _he_  won’t,” Yamikawa said, and his calmness rivalled Chris’s, “but imagine how much you two would fetch if we turned you over to the right people in Heartland.”

“What the hell would anyone in Heartland want with us?” Akari demanded, straining against the rope as she tried to face Yamikawa.

She stopped struggling when Yamikawa squatted next to her on the balls of his feet. He regarded her with a tilt of his head. “You might know things, Lady Arclight. You  _do_  have a close working relationship with certain high-ranking Barian lords.”

“It’s Lady  _Tsukumo_  and I’m gonna-”

“The Barians took over my kingdom,” Chris cut in, and he sounded terse now. “I have no say in what goes on there anymore and nothing a common pirate tries in order to get us to talk is going to make us worth anything.”

Yamikawa slowly straightened up and casually wiped the rain from his hair. “I’m anything but a common pirate, Lord Arclight. I actually prefer the term _privateer_.”

Chris snorted, an odd sound from him. “A privateer is contracted legally by a wartime government. Only one government exists on this entire continent, and  _they_  sure as hell didn’t hire you.”

An unpleasant grin appeared on Yamikawa’s face, showing rather pointed teeth. “Is that so.” He nodded toward the short man. “Tokunosuke, take our guests below deck and out of the rain. It won’t do for them to get sick.”

The man – Tokunosuke – scowled at Akari and Chris before gripping the rope, hauling them clumsily to their bound feet. Akari figured they could probably take this short man – even tied together – if Chris cooperated with her, but Chris merely coughed quietly and shuffled backward, stumbling into her as they were dragged below deck once more.

—-

“I’m not a tactician,” Kaito said after a long moment of staring at Captain Kamishiro’s plans for an invasion of the Astral Kingdom, “but even to me, this seems particularly stupid.”

The captain merely crossed his arms and lifted an eyebrow, which Kaito took as in invitation to tell him on what grounds he was stupid, of which there were several.

“For one” –Kaito jabbed a finger at a bridge over the Revise River- “assuming Lord Vector doesn’t have this bridge heavily guarded, which he will, you’re  _also_ assuming he won’t have the surrounding three villages watched. Or his front gate. Or the hallways, or the throne room, and, most importantly, that he will be in the throne room to  _begin_  with.”

No response.

Kaito closed his eyes in frustration for a moment. “Second, you’re planning to do this whole damn mission with, what, fewer than twelve people?” He straightened up and placed a hand on his hip. “Which leads me to my third issue – did any of them actually agree to this or did you just assume that they’d be all for charging right at a Barian mage? I’m curious, because it seems like there’s a lot of assuming going on here, and it seems uncharacteristically moronic of a Dragoon warrior to base his battle strategy off some baseless assumptions.”

“Vector will be in the throne room,” Ryoga said tonelessly.

Whatever had happened to him in the past couple of weeks had made him more intolerably arrogant than before. It pissed Kaito off. “You sound so sure of yourself.”

“I am.” Ryoga sat up, drawing the map closer to himself. “Your second point was the thing that rendered all of your other concerns invalid. There won’t be just a handful of us.” He traced his finger in a circle over three areas scattered throughout the Astral Kingdom: one along the river bordering Heartland, one along the northeastern river, and one not too far west from the Shrine. “You see, not all of the Astral Guard was in the palace during the invasion.”

 _You have to be kidding me._  “Three small outposts of exiled soldiers aren’t going to be sufficient to mount an assault against arguably the most powerful Barian lord.”

“They won’t be mounting an assault,” Ryoga said curtly.

It took Kaito exactly seven seconds to figure out what Ryoga meant by that, and just as his mouth opened in stunned disbelief, there was a knock at the door and Yuma pushed it open.

“Captain,” he murmured, entering the room as he closed the door behind him.

“Lieutenant,” Ryoga replied without looking at him. “What is it?”

Yuma cleared his throat and stared at the ground. “I wanted to- to apologize for hitting you, Lord Kaito, and I…” He gritted his teeth. “I beg your forgiveness.”

Kaito considered denying the man his forgiveness – despite the Healing, his jaw was still sore – but he was still bewildered over what had happened between Yuma and the captain and even more so about why the captain was so eager to let everyone who might be willing to mount a counterattack against the Barian Empire charge headlong into an attack at one lord. “Whatever.” He thrust a finger at the map. “Do you know about this?”

Yuma’s eyes flickered toward the map. “Yes.”

“And you’re  _okay_ with this?” Kaito demanded.

“Yeah.” Yuma shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll do whatever I’m needed to do.”

Kaito backhanded him squarely across the face. As far as he was concerned, it was equal payment for the sore jaw Yuma had left  _him_ with, and Yuma deserved it far more at the moment. It didn’t seem to faze him, however; he rubbed his cheek, eyes narrowed, but didn’t say anything else. Which was fine; Kaito had plenty to say.

“The hell is going on with you people?” He turned to the captain. “You’ve turned into a suicidal maniac who’s willing to sacrifice dozens of people to kill one lord when there are six more sitting on top of the rest of their empire” –he turned to Yuma- “and you – you’ve fucking… given up.” He held out his hands. “This is ludicrous.”

“Maybe you should-”

Ryoga’s terse response stopped abruptly, and his entire body seized up. Every sign of life in his eyes vanished instantly, but he still breathed – slowly, almost imperceptibly, but enough to make the strand of hair that had fallen over his nose flutter slightly with each exhale.

“What’s happening?” Yuma murmured, approaching the man cautiously. “Ryoga?”

“I don’t think he’s going to answer,” Kaito said as Yuma shook Ryoga’s shoulder gently. “He looks like he’s gone into a trance.”

“I’ve never seen anyone go into a trance so suddenly.” Yuma licked his lips and sat next to the captain on the bed, reaching tenderly for his face. “Hey.”

It reminded Kaito of the time he and Ryoga had rescued Astral and Yuma from the Barians. Ryoga had touched Yuma’s face just as affectionately, had brushed Yuma’s hair out of his eyes the same way Yuma was now doing to Ryoga’s.

 _No more killing,_ Yuma had whispered back then.  _I don’t want any more killing._

“Kattobing,” Kaito said quietly.

Yuma turned his head back toward Kaito. “What?”

Kaito cleared his throat and turned his back on Yuma. “Your sister wanted me to tell you… to kattobing.”

“Akari…?” Yuma’s voice was full of relief. “You… you talked to Sis? She’s okay?”

“She’s doing fine. She’s just worried about you.” Kaito knew all too well what it was like to be an older sibling worrying for a younger brother. Except in his case, Haruto wasn’t fine. He was Durbe’s prisoner, and Kaito needed to gain the Dragon’s power in order to save him. He didn’t have time to waste, but he needed Ryoga and Astral’s help deciphering the legend again. There was something they had missed the first time. Ryoga didn’t seem like he would be particularly helpful in this state, though. Gods, his chest was killing him. He hoped fervently that he wasn’t sick. “What does it mean? Kattobing?”

“It was our dad’s thing,” Yuma mumbled. “It didn’t really have… a meaning. Don’t give up. Do your best. That sort of thing.” He sighed. “But he always told us to make our own future. No matter what.”

“Is this the future you want?”

Yuma didn’t need to speak for Kaito to know what the answer would be. Yuma didn’t want this. Yuma was  _afraid_  of Ryoga now.

“Everyone’s going to die if you don’t stop him,” Kaito said evenly.

“What can I do?”

Kaito folded his arms as he turned to face Yuma, whose hand now gripped Ryoga’s. “This isn’t him.” By Yuma’s unsurprised expression, Kaito knew he felt the same. “Get the real him back.”

—-

Mizael was just getting to sleep when Durbe seized up next to him, loud, pained whining noises slipping from his mouth. Unsure of what to do, Mizael sat up and pulled Durbe with him, wrapping him in his arms. Durbe’s whimpers gave way to soft sobs, and his fingers clenched the back of Mizael’s nightclothes while his face pressed into Mizael’s chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered hoarsely.

Gently, Mizael pried Durbe off. “You know that we can’t keep this sleeping arrangement going for much longer, Durbe. Especially if you’re going to wake up this noisily every time.”

“I know, I know, I-” Durbe hunched over and pulled his knees to his chest. He reminded Mizael of a small child trying to comfort himself. “It’s hard to sleep because I… I see them. Every night. Every night I see them, and they just look at me and I see their accusations.”

“Who?”

Durbe scratched at his stringy hair with a trembling hand. He hadn’t washed his hair in nearly a week. “Alit. Gilag. Kaid. Everyone who died because of me.”

No matter how much Mizael tried to tell him otherwise, Durbe was convinced that he was responsible for Alit and Gilag’s deaths. And Durbe often uttered the other name, Kaid, in his sleep but refused to tell Mizael who Kaid was. “Who is Kaid, and why were you responsible for his death?”

He didn’t expect an answer this time either, but Durbe’s mouth quivered before he turned his back on Mizael and sat on the edge of the bed. He sniffed. “My little brother.”

In the thirty years they had known each other, Mizael couldn’t recall a time when Durbe had mentioned having a brother. All he knew about Durbe’s childhood, he realized, was that Durbe was from a small village in the Waste and that his village had been hit with a deadly plague before Durbe left it. Surely Durbe didn’t think that he was responsible for the plague that must have killed his brother. “Unless you summoned that plague to your village, I don’t think you were responsible for it.”

“He died and my parents died and everyone in my entire goddamn village died except me. I had to watch. I had to watch as everyone I loved died and… and I ran away. I ran away and became the thing I hated most, thinking foolishly that I could make things better for my kingdom but I… God.” He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. “It wasn’t a plague, Mizael.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It was poison.” Durbe turned back to him, eyes dull. He reached for Mizael’s hand, and Mizael let him have it. “It was the same poison that almost killed you.”

Mizael’s hand twitched involuntarily and he resisted the suddenly overpowering urge to pull away from Durbe. This explained so much, and yet offered no answers to some of Mizael’s more burning questions. “Why did you survive, then?” he whispered. “Why is your blood the only immunity?”

“I don’t know.” Durbe shook his head and looked up at Mizael desperately. “I saw them, Mizael. In the Waste, when Gilag and I went back to find the plant that produces the poison. They are so filled with a demand for justice for the wrongs done against them that they are tied to that place. Forever to thirst for vengeance, never to find peace.” His breathing quickened and he shuddered. “They said the Seven Lords were responsible, using my village as an experiment.” He rested his head on his pillow, tears flowing sideways across the bridge of his nose. “I’m no better than the other lords, they said. I turned my back on them, abandoned them, and committed genocide of my own.”

Settling back on the bed, Mizael rested his head on his own pillow until he was looking at Durbe again. “Is this why you are so worked up about me being sick? You’d watched everyone you loved die to this poison and you didn’t want to lose someone else you… someone else you care about?”

Durbe reached out shakily and tucked a strand of Mizael’s hair behind his ear. “Please don’t die, Mizael.”

“That’s the plan.” Mizael attempted to give Durbe a wry smile, but the lord’s eyes closed.

“Dragoons had a deeply ingrained religious system,” Durbe murmured, thumb absently brushing Mizael’s marks. Mizael frowned at the sudden change in conversation. “They had four major symbols. The Earth, which gave their bodies life and welcomed them back after their deaths. The Astral World, which created their souls and promised their rebirth. The Forest, which gave them shelter and sustenance. And the Mountain, which was where the gods communed with them.”

Mizael didn’t understand what Durbe was going on about, or what this had to do with anything they had been talking about. But when he voiced this confusion out loud, Durbe opened his eyes again.

“These four symbols were everything to them,” Durbe whispered. “They would have etched them onto the four seals that protected their village.”

_A weary warrior approaches the Mountain of the Gods._

It finally clicked.

The Mountain of the Gods wasn’t a literal mountain. It was one of the four seals buried deep within what was once the Dragoon Village.

“How do you-”

“I see it, in my dreams.” Durbe’s gaze didn’t meet Mizael’s. “When they stand there, watching me, it’s in the middle of that forest. Except there’s a mountain to the north, clearly visible, though the mountains are in actuality to the west. It’s never made sense before, but…” He closed his eyes once more and slid closer to Mizael, linking their hands together. “For the Dragon to awaken, the Dragoons had to die. That was their purpose, to protect the seal until time came for it to be broken.” He sounded so calm, despite his quivering hand and the stray tears dripping from his eyelashes.

“Why would the gods create an entire race of people to be massacred like cattle?” Mizael mused.

“I don’t know. I probably never will. But Mizael, if that was their purpose… then what is  _ours_?”

His pale, dry lips, cracked and bleeding, were close to Mizael’s, and Mizael felt his heart clench in his chest, felt a pleasant shudder run through his body. “How long must we wait, Durbe?”

Durbe’s lips curled upward in a humorless smile, millimeters from Mizael’s now. “The broken soul must be the one to approach the Mountain of the Gods.”

“Then I will go in the morning, and soon I will no longer be a broken soul,” Mizael whispered, closing the gap.

—-

Kazuma sat at the edge of a pier in a stiff wooden chair, fishing rod in hand as Ryoga approached. Not even a ripple disrupted the glassy surface of the water.

“I can’t help you.”

“I’m sorry about your wife.”

The man didn’t respond.

“You told me about the world between worlds. How do I get there?”

“You don’t.”

“Are there even any fish in this lake?”

“No.”

Ryoga crossed his arms and stared down at the man who gave Yuma so many of his striking features – a strong jaw, messy hair, tanned skin. He’d broken so many rules to help Ryoga – to save his son from having to fulfill his horrible Fate – but now he wouldn’t help? “You said the world between worlds is one where things that  _could_ have been exist. I need to get there.”

“You don’t,” Kazuma repeated.

“My sister is there.”

“Your sister is dead.”

Ryoga’s fingernails dug into his skin. It didn’t hurt. Nothing did, here. “Is that it, then? If I die, I can reach that world.”

Kazuma turned to look at him, lips pressed together. “Give up on trying to enter that world. It’s a world of dreams, not of reality. A world of hypotheticals. Just… a  _dream_.”

There was something in the way Kazuma emphasized the word that caught Ryoga’s attention, but before he could speak, a soft voice behind him cut in.

“It is good that you have stopped interfering, Kazuma.”

Not one but four figures stood behind Ryoga. One was Rabelais; the second, a small, thin figure with blindingly white-blue hair in a flowing dress; the third was taller even than Rabelais, with long, slicked back hair in the same shade of white-blue, tattoos on their prominent cheekbones. The fourth was the monstrous figure of Shark Drake.

“Ena,” Kazuma said, brows furrowed. “Rabelais.” He paused. “Eliphas.”

The tall god crossed their arms and stared down at Ryoga, who stared right back, trying valiantly to ignore the pounding in his chest. “Are you trying to renege on your oaths, Ryoga Kamishiro? Again?”

Ryoga clenched his jaw but remained silent.

“He just wants to be with his sister, Eliphas,” Kazuma said.

“Going back on his oaths is a good way to end up in Barian World instead of with his sister,” Ena said in the same quiet voice.

“I would rather burn in the fires of Barian World than live here for eternity.” Ryoga turned his back on them and pulled his arms to his chest. “Because at least I would be able to  _feel_  again.”

“Don’t speak to her that way,” Rabelais said icily. “And don’t turn your back to us. Face us.”

Ryoga half-turned. “What more could you possibly want from me?”

“Yuma Tsukumo,” Eliphas said simply.

“What about him?” Ryoga demanded, ignoring Kazuma’s sharp breath.

“He is trying to discard our plans for him. You ruined him. You must fix him.”

“Not a chance.”

“We created him to serve us.”

This was too much for Ryoga. He should have stopped to think about what he was saying – he was speaking to the gods, after all – but months, years of pent-up frustration escaped him before he could help himself. “To serve you? That was exactly what he did for his entire life! He served you!” Rabelais opened their mouth, but Ena placed a hand on their arm to silence them, and Ryoga plowed ahead. “I’ve listened to him cry himself to sleep at night because he’s terrified for his soul. I’ve heard his desperate prayers, asking for forgiveness for what he’s done. I’ve watched as his faith and happiness and optimism melted away, day after day, replaced with despair and sorrow and hopelessness and  _anger_. I’ve seen him so consumed with grief that he’s tried to kill himself. Because he’s scared! You- none of you give a damn about Yuma Tsukumo! None of you give a damn about any of us!”

“That’s enough,” Eliphas said quietly. Ryoga was surprised that he’d managed to spout off his entire tirade almost uninterrupted, but now he had to face the consequences of speaking that way directly to the gods. Kazuma wouldn’t even look at him now. “It isn’t often when we miscalculate. But never did we dream that Yuma Tsukumo would be so corrupted by a half-Barian that it would derail our plans to this degree.” They chuckled. It was a bizarre sound, coming from such an expressionless face. “It is interesting, how  _human_  Yuma Tsukumo ended up being.”

Ryoga laughed mirthlessly, body shaking in fury. “What did you  _think_  was going to happen? If you wanted him to remain your perfect puppet messiah, then you shouldn’t have given him the capacity to  _feel_ like a human!” 

“Ryoga,” Kazuma murmured, but Ryoga was undeterred. He was  _furious_ ; they had the audacity to blame  _Ryoga_ for corrupting Yuma when they were the ones who created Yuma to be like a human in the first place.  _Corrupted_  – it was ridiculous. He hadn’t  _corrupted_  Yuma; Yuma had exercised his free will, had exercised it better than anyone Ryoga had ever known, and because of Yuma’s heart and empathy, he suffered that much more from grief and loss.

But now it made sense. His shoulders shook, and even he was surprised to hear the laughter escape him. “That’s it, isn’t it? You took some of your magic stardust and crafted your perfect creation, your little savior out of it, and you were proud of yourselves because this thing you created was going to destroy the Barians.”

“Yuma Tsukumo  _will_ destroy the Barians,” Eliphas said curtly.

“I can’t imagine how much it must have  _galled_  you when he shared a bed with a Barian instead of destroying it,” Ryoga said, allowing the corners of his mouth to twitch upward. “And a half-Barian, half-Dragoon  _man_ , nonetheless.”

“You vile abomination-” Rabelais started forward but Ena placed her hand on their shoulder.

“Don’t lose your temper over this, Rabelais.”

“You all have the right to,” Ryoga cut in. “You’re angry that two of your failed creations are finding a way out of your bonds of Fate and leaving you with less control over the future of this planet and  _this_  empty world.”

Shark Drake hadn’t spoken for the entirety of the conversation. Ryoga had almost forgotten it was there. “I have already freed you, Ryoga Kamishiro. It was part of our contract.”

“No.” Ryoga shook his head and smiled.  _Freedom from the bonds of Fate._ “What was my Fate? I get to choose between eternal servitude and eternal damnation? Because that’s what eternity is shaping up to be either way.”

“Are you dissatisfied?” Ena seemed to be the calmest of this circle of gods. She sounded more curious than angry, unlike Rabelais and Eliphas.

“I don’t care about myself anymore, but I refuse to sit idly by while you keep making Yuma suffer.” He turned away again, and this time he didn’t look back. “I’m going to gain control of my body again and find my own way to save my world. To hell with your Fate, you soulless bastards.”


	50. The Dream-Bordering World

From the palace rooftop, he had a perfect, unobstructed view of the villages below, of the endless forests, of the mountains that stretched for miles across the kingdom’s borderlands. The river, crystalline and calm, cut gentle curves into the landscape and headed out of sight into a mountain pass. Most importantly, he had a perfect view of the stars. Millions of them – billions, more; he would never know – clustered together across the black eternity of the worlds beyond the sky, many more standing out just as clearly against a milky white backdrop painted over the darkness.

The midsummer night was warm, the breeze gentle when his stargazing ritual was once again interrupted. “Captain?”

He leaned his head back until he saw the upside-down, curious face of Prince Astral’s personal bodyguard, dressed in a pristine white jumpsuit and red armor. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“His Grace asked me to pass this along to you.” He held out a roll of parchment. “Lord Faker and his sons are coming to visit in a few weeks and His Grace wanted to ensure their safety while they were staying here.”

The captain sighed and took the parchment. The lieutenant gave him a polite bow and turned to go. “Yuma.”

The lieutenant paused. “Yes, Captain?”

The captain gestured for the lieutenant to sit next to him. After a moment’s hesitation, he obliged, shifting the gleaming sword at his waist for a more comfortable sitting position. “You’ve been quiet lately. Are you overwhelmed by your duties?”

“N-no, not at all.” Yuma idly brushed his white pants and wouldn’t look the captain in the eyes. “It’s an honor, it really is. To be able to serve my king and queen and prince… is more than I deserve.”

“You deserve more.” The words slipped out of the captain’s mouth before he could think them over. But it was too late to take them back, and they were true words, regardless. “It’s been two years, Yuma.”

“I know, but…” Yuma wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees. “I still wonder how she died, Ry- Captain.”

“You know that you can call me Ryoga when we’re not on official duty,” the captain said. He smiled wryly. “I’ve never told you, but I’m glad I decided not to send you with her that day. You’re better off untainted by the horrors of war. You’re better off not knowing how they killed her.” They’d found her body, weeks later. The animals had gotten to it, and she had been almost unrecognizable save for the fang necklace still dangling from her shredded throat.

“I think that she would be proud of you,” Yuma said quietly, still not looking at him. “You’ve kept this kingdom and your people safe from the Barians for two years.”

And that, Ryoga thought, was puzzling. The Barians had taken over Arclight two years ago, and had made no movement toward conquering another kingdom. Not the tiny Tenjo Kingdom to the south, or the wealthy Heartland Kingdom. The Barians would never be content taking just one kingdom. But two years had passed and nothing had happened. No hint that the Barians were mobilizing, no aggressive actions or anything that might be construed as aggressive. Nothing. Ryoga was, however, confident that the Barians wouldn’t be able to break through the Dragoon Village to the east. It was warded from the Barians, safe. “Not much to do to keep safe from them lately,” Ryoga muttered. He turned his head to Yuma, who was gazing at the sky, a crease in his forehead from how hard he was frowning. “What’s up?”

Yuma shook his head. “Nothing. I should get back so the prince can complete his prayers sometime before midnight.” He made to stand and Ryoga grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him back down.

“The prince can wait thirty seconds longer,” Ryoga said with a scowl. “You haven’t looked at me since last week. Any reason why?”

Yuma’s incoherent mutter was not sufficient, and when Ryoga told him so, Yuma closed his eyes. “I… overheard something that… um… you and your sister… you were arguing about, uh, me. I think.”

_Gods_. Ryoga shoved the strands of hair that had escaped his hair ribbon back behind his ear. “Rio and I have a lot of arguments. Most of them are unfounded. You shouldn’t let it bother you.” He knew exactly which conversation Yuma had overheard. The same conversation about  _the law_  that they’d had ever since Mara’s death two years ago. Rio had accused Ryoga of lying to himself. Yuma’s name must have come up at that point.

“You’re right.” Yuma shifted away slowly, as though wondering if Ryoga would grab him again. “Well… good night, Captain.”

“Yuma.”

“Yes?”

Ryoga looked up at him. “In the morning, I am headed out to the Shrine to do inventory. I wanted to make sure it is well-supplied for when…  _if_  the Barians invade. Would you like to accompany me, if I can convince Prince Astral to let you go for a few days?”

“I…” Yuma shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. “Yes, it would be my honor.”

—-

Ryoga greeted the soldiers in the Shrine, who seemed excited to see him – probably because they had been guarding the area for months with nothing much to do but drink and play cards – and they eagerly chatted about the supplies that were getting low, complained about how hot and foggy it had been, and asked for the latest palace gossip. It must be terribly boring, keeping watch at the Shrine while the Dragoons kept a constant vigil not thirty miles away in their village. Ryoga hadn’t been back in three years. They – the village elders, particularly – would doubtless berate him for _dereliction of duty_ when he was seven years past his prime marrying age and still remained unwed without children of his own. He did miss his mother, though he did not regret leaving the village on his seventeenth birthday. To serve his king and country, he insisted, but truthfully, it was because he was expected to marry Mara. The thought of being married at all terrified him, let alone to one of his closest friends, and like a coward, he’d run. She followed two years later, along with his sister, and neither of  _them_  had married. No, the elders did not have much fondness for Mara Simin or for the Kamishiro twins. That was fine. Mara was gone, and he had little love for the elders and their moralistic rules, either.

“Gods, they drink so much,” he muttered, counting the bottles in the cool cellar. “Only thirteen bottles of whiskey left. I’m reasonably sure I said to leave it for medical emergencies.”

“They might consider the slow process of going mad from boredom to be a medical emergency,” Yuma said lightly, and Ryoga couldn’t help but laugh. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. It felt… nice, being there with Yuma.

But mostly he felt guilty.

—-

His fingers felt along the stone wall, near the torch brackets. He had no idea what he was looking for, if he was looking at anything at all, but a faint nagging feeling in the back of his mind drew him there. He searched for a hidden door, a message carved into the stone,  _anything_  – but there was nothing. Every inch of the stone wall was as solid as the inch before.

“Captain?” Yuma stood nearby, leaning against a wall with a sealed bottle in his hands. There was a mischievous grin on his face that Ryoga hadn’t seen in over two years.

“Is that whiskey?” Ryoga was glad for the chance to take his hands from the wall. There was something  _missing_ ; something should be there but wasn’t. It didn’t make sense. “Knocking our supply to twelve bottles, are you?”

“Medical emergency.”

Ryoga couldn’t help but laugh again. “You can’t drink that whole thing yourself.”

“I could share with you, if you insist.”

Yuma looked five years younger, with that sly smile and playful tilt of his clean-shaven chin. “I’ll duel you for it,” Ryoga found himself saying. Something was wrong, something was… so wrong. It seemed like Yuma should have tears on his face, not a smile, and he should look five years  _older_ from all the pain he had experienced in his young life. But Ryoga never wanted to see tears on Yuma’s face again.

—-

Ryoga found his back against the ground, Yuma’s practice sword at the base of his neck. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and Ryoga had a nagging feeling it wouldn’t be the last. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry this time.

“Looks like I win again, Captain.” In the setting mountain sun, Yuma’s face glowed in warm hues of gold and purple and red, his bright eyes full of life.

For a second, Ryoga saw those eyes full of fear and despair, but he blinked and the warmth was back.

The men who had gathered on the Shrine grounds laughed, and there was the unmistakable  _clink_ of money exchanging hands as Yuma helped Ryoga to his feet. Betting on who would win; how rude.

“I’ll still share,” Yuma teased softly as they headed back into the Shrine together.

—-

Ryoga was paralyzed under Yuma’s touch, under Yuma’s sloppy, drunken kisses that half the time missed Ryoga’s lips and ended up on his jaw, his chin, his neck. Ryoga’s fingernails dug into the smooth skin, the taut muscles on Yuma’s naked back that didn’t feel right because Yuma had scars on his back, didn’t he?

_Why would he have scars on his back?_

It was risky to do this in the Shrine where someone might walk in or hear the whines and moans and heavy breathing - it would ruin him, would exile him from the clan and make him an outcast - but  _gods_  did he want this. So did Yuma, he thought, but Yuma had consumed more than half the bottle and nothing he had whispered as he tugged longingly at Ryoga’s armor made sense and Ryoga didn’t know if it was drunken release of suppressed physical needs or desire for his captain that led to Yuma pushing their lips together for the third time-

-no, first-

-but at that moment, Ryoga didn’t care which it was, because Yuma felt… good.

—-

When he woke, Yuma’s warm arm was draped across his chest and he snored softly into Ryoga’s hair. He slept so peacefully. He looked so content. He always did.

Even though Ryoga was sure now that Yuma was plagued by nightmares every time he closed his eyes.

“Is this what you wanted?”

Rio sat daintily on the table by the bedside, head tilted at the two men lying in the bed. If Ryoga hadn’t already accepted that this was a wishful dream, he would have… well, he didn’t know. He’d never thought about what Rio would say to him if she saw him like this in reality. He’d always tried not to think about Yuma in this way.

“I don’t know.” Ryoga looked down at Yuma, who hadn’t moved. He wouldn’t. This was, after all, not real. “I want to free him from the burden the bastards in Astral World have chained him down with.” He wanted to be free of the knowledge that his race was gone, that he had never been a part of it to begin with. But he didn’t want the Barians to take over, and he didn’t want Mara to be dead.

He couldn’t have everything.

She slid from the table and plopped on the bed. “You don’t think this is real.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“What if I told you it was?” She smiled knowingly, and Ryoga found himself kneeling across a small altar with Mara. “What if I told you that every choice you never made” –he stood by Prince Astral, who was being crowned King- “every possibility that never happened” –he held the unmoving, bloodstained body of Yuma Tsukumo- “is real here?”

He closed his eyes and tried to remind himself that Yuma was not the decaying corpse in his arms. “I don’t want this. I don’t want a future where this is real.”

When his eyes opened again, he stood on the roof of the Astral Palace, staring down at the river and the forests and the village. The banner that waved over the kingdom was the emblem of the Astralite royal family instead of the crest of the Barian Empire.

“You can live out lifetimes here,” Rio said softly from behind him. “An eternity of hypothetical lifetimes. Things that could have been, but weren’t. This is the world that exists outside of time, where realities collide.”

“But I knew,” Ryoga whispered. “I knew it wasn’t right, that… life.”

“Because you’re not dead. You’re too tied to the reality that  _is_  to be completely immersed in what  _could_ be, or could have been.” She rested her chin on his shoulder, arms wrapping around his waist. “Ryoga, I’ve seen the future where you lost your internal battle with your emissary. Yes, the Barians were destroyed. But so was everyone else you ever cared about.” Her face darkened. “The world burned.” 

Ryoga shivered, though it was not cold. “You told me to accept it.” Ryoga squeezed his eyes shut again. “Gods, Rio, you told me it was the only way to save my soul.”

“And your soul  _is_  saved.” Her hand found his. “And so is mine.”

“I don’t understand. You’re stuck in this… this in-between world. How are you saved?”

She hit the back of his head lightly, the way she did when they were younger when he made a stupid comment. “I’m not bowing down to Don Thousand. That’s a start.”

Everything Mara had told him about life in the Astral World had made him question whether it was worth his life to have a soul void of feeling. Everything he knew about the gods who ruled over the spirits there, all the strict rules, made him question whether that was truly paradise. “Is this better than the Astral World?” he whispered.

“Sometimes.” Rio’s forehead pressed into his hair. “Sometimes it’s Paradise.” He would never forget how warm the hypothetical Yuma felt in his arms as they made love, or how he smelled of whiskey and sweat and earth. He would never forget the calloused fingers in his hair, or the warm, sloppy kisses the smiling man left on his face, neck, and shoulders.

Ryoga gave Rio’s hand a gentle squeeze. “And sometimes it’s Hell.” He would never forget how cold and heavy and rigid the hypothetical Yuma’s body felt in his arms, how the decaying corpse smelled of rot and bile and blood. He would never forget the pale lips and the dull, hollowed eyes and sallow skin.

“Sometimes it’s worse than Hell, Ryoga. Sometimes the pain is too real and you want it to end but it  _doesn’t_.”

He would never forget how the real Yuma felt in his arms, how the real Yuma’s tear-covered lips tasted as Ryoga held him and promised him something he knew he could never do.

“I wish we could… cease to exist. That there was no Paradise. That there was no Hell. That we could just die and that’s the end.” He never would have held back doing things he had been afraid to do because he would face eternal consequences. Not that any of it mattered in the end.

“You’re oddly philosophical,” Rio murmured. “Why not convince the gods that true Paradise… is everything good about living? What if how it is now isn’t how the Astral World is really  _supposed_  to be?”

“They’ve got their heads so far up their asses that I don’t think they can see anything but their lungs. What the hell good is reasoning with them supposed to do?”

Rio sighed. “You’ve got a lot of goddamn work to do, Ryoga Kamishiro. You can beat the gods and get your body back and make a new future. A new hypothetical reality that doesn’t exist here because it’s not hypothetical anymore. It’ll be  _real_.”

—-

When his eyes opened, the first thing he realized was that he was on his back. The second was that a sword was at his throat again, and it wasn’t accompanied by a playful smile.

_What the hell, Kaito_  he wanted to say, but his mouth moved on its own. “Untie me.”

Yes, his arms and legs were both tied to the bed. Kaito held his sword arm steady as he gazed down into Ryoga’s eyes, and Ryoga found himself staring right back, though he willed them to blink, to move. It was the wrong time for a joke, but with his body tied to the bed and his armor stripped from his body, he wanted to make a light comment out of it.

_Kaito, you kinky bastard._

Instead, his voice repeated its first command, harsher now. “Untie me. Now.”

“No.” It was Yuma’s voice now, quieter, from behind Kaito. Ryoga’s gaze finally shifted from Kaito’s face to Yuma’s, which was pale but set with soft determination. “Where is Ryoga?”

Ryoga felt the relief wash over him – Yuma knew, then, knew that this wasn’t Ryoga – but it didn’t show on his face, as his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched painfully. “What the hell are you doing? Untie me, and I won’t ask again, Yuma Tsukumo.”

“Not until you tell us what you did to Ryoga Kamishiro,” Kaito said. His voice was annoyed, almost bored.

“I  _am_ Ryoga Kamishiro, you stupid man. Who else would I be?”

“Ryoga would have made a snide comment about my romantic preferences when he saw that he was tied up on the bed,” Kaito said curtly, and Ryoga could have laughed if he had any control over his body, because that was exactly what had happened. “In fact, he would have made several snide comments since I’ve been here. And yet he has not.”

“My sister is dead; did you expect me to keep up with our witty banter?”

“Yeah, actually, I did.” Kaito tapped the side of Ryoga’s face with the flat edge of his sword. “Against my will or knowledge, I accidentally transferred a part of my soul into you when we first met. Do you remember?”

Of course he did. It had hurt worse than being pierced with Barian weapons, whatever Kaito had done, and it seemed to have hurt Kaito, too. It never left a mark, and Ryoga never knew what had happened. “What do you mean you _transferred your soul_  into me?”

“I used my hellpowers to bind our souls together for eternity because we’re soulmates,” Kaito said, voice dripping with contempt. “What the hell does it sound like, you asshole?”

_Tone down the sarcasm, my lord,_  Ryoga thought, amused, but Shark Drake thought otherwise. “You have no right to speak to me with such coarse-”

Kaito barked out a laugh. “Oh my  _gods_ , I can’t believe you’re pulling this. Imagine, Ryoga Kamishiro telling the prince of the Tenjo Kingdom that he has  _no right_ to speak to  _him_  coarsely. You are  _so_  full of shit.”

“Kaito,” Yuma murmured, but Kaito silenced him with a sharp glare.

“No, I’ll tell you something. When I transferred my soul into you, I could feel you, Ryoga Kamishiro. From a distance, I always knew where you were. I could feel your emotions. I could feel your pain and”-he grimaced- “your _pleasure_.”

Shark Drake glanced at Yuma, who looked at the wall with worried eyes. And Ryoga wanted more than anything to tell Yuma that he didn’t regret it. That it wasn’t a mistake, regardless of what Shark Drake had made him say. But he couldn’t; he couldn’t open his mouth, he couldn’t make a sound or blink or twitch a finger, no matter how much effort he put into it.

_Don’t struggle, Ryoga Kamishiro. It won’t make any difference._

_Don’t make him hurt any more than he already is, you son of a bitch._

“You don’t understand the circumstances,” Shark Drake said calmly.

“Sure I do,” Kaito said over Yuma quietly clearing his throat. “Your sister died, you got sad, and Yuma was there for you.”

“My sister took her own life,” Shark Drake hissed, and Kaito’s sword arm slacked. “You don’t know what that’s like, Kaito Tenjo. To lose everything. To want so desperately to make one thing in your life right.  _All_  I want” –and his gaze went back to Yuma, who stood with his eyes closed and arms crossed in resignation- “is to defeat the Barians and put Prince Astral on the throne where he belongs. Isn’t that what you want, Lieutenant?”

“Of course,” Yuma said quietly. “It is my duty to protect my prince and restore him to his throne. I will serve him to my last breath.”

“Why did she kill herself?” Kaito interjected.

Ryoga didn’t bother praying that the gods would will Shark Drake to keep this secret from Kaito. After his tirade, he was sure they wouldn’t lift a finger to help him ever again. But he could ask Shark Drake directly.

_He doesn’t need to know this._

_Kaito Tenjo_ should _know this about you._

“My sister and I were born of a Barian and a Dragoon.”

Kaito was silent for a long moment, staring down into Ryoga’s eyes with a curious combination of pity, disgust, anger, and suspicion. “I see,” he said finally, pulling his sword away. “I was right about you, then. You  _are_ a half-breed abomination after all.”

He sheathed his sword, heading for the door. Yuma stared at Ryoga for another moment before following. Shark Drake strained against the ropes.

“Untie me!”

“You were wrong on every account,” Kaito said without turning around. “I _do_  know what it’s like to lose everything. I’ve lost my brother, my only friend, and my kingdom. Don’t go pretending that you’re the only one who’s suffered at the Barians’ hands.” The door slammed behind them.

Shark Drake grunted in frustration and Ryoga laughed.

_You do a piss-poor job pretending to be me_ , he said conversationally.  _Throw in a few insults and roll your eyes a bit more and you might have been passable._

_It is offensive to my pride pretending to be you. I will not suffer the indignity of stooping to your levels._

_No wonder they think I’ve been possessed or something._

_I tire of your commentary. Will Yuma Tsukumo do as he is told?_

Ryoga didn’t know. Part of him thought Yuma trusted him enough to do anything he asked. But the other part knew that Yuma would put Astral first. If Shark Drake’s plan threatened Astral in any way…  _You’re asking Yuma to die. If it is for his prince and kingdom, he will._

_Good. It is his purpose._

_I won’t let you do it._

Shark Drake laughed. It sounded bizarre coming from Ryoga’s own throat. _You can’t stop me now, Ryoga Kamishiro._


	51. Herald of Death

The room was empty when Durbe woke. He didn’t expect that Mizael would still be there; part of him vaguely recalled Mizael climbing from bed before sunrise, but Durbe had been so tired that he fell asleep again. Without Mizael’s presence, Durbe had slipped right back into the same nightmares he had every night. Labyrinths, dark shadows, taunting voices; the faces of his friends and family staring at him accusingly, reminding him without words that they were dead because of him.

He slid a robe over his nightclothes and fumbled his way to the door. If he could make it back into his quarters without anyone seeing him, he could avoid awkward questions as to why he had been in his general’s bedroom at sunrise. The palace servants would probably not be awake yet.

“Durbe.”

He turned, heart pounding. The hallway was empty.

 _A remnant of that dream_ , he told himself, where he wandered the labyrinth alone, always getting close to the ones he wanted desperately to save, but always failing. The voice was the same, he thought. Low, taunting, authoritative, from every direction at once and no direction at the same time.

A low laugh filled the hallway. Durbe pulled his arms closer to his body and resumed walking.

“You can’t ignore me for long, Durbe,” the voice said, almost amused. “I know everything in your heart. Your pain. Your treachery. Your darkest secrets and your desperation.”

The hallways never seemed to end; every step he took toward the intersecting corridor felt like a step backward.

“The secrets you keep from the one who even now is spilling his blood for you.”

He couldn’t move his legs, and he had to prop himself up on a nearby marble table. His breathing quickened to match his heartbeat.

“The secrets you have tried to keep from the others. The secrets you have failed to keep from me.”

The voice was right behind him now, but he couldn’t move his head. His legs remained rooted to the spot though he screamed internally for them to carry him as far from this place as possible. Maybe this was still part of his dream. Maybe he would wake next to Mizael and have the reassurance that this… this  _demon_  was still trapped in the world of dreams, not to disturb him until he succumbed to his exhaustion the next night.

Another low laugh. “Demon? I am no demon, Durbe. I am your God.”

Sweat trickled down the back of Durbe’s neck, over his forehead, and the palms of his hands. His breathing no longer matched his heartbeat. He was barely breathing at all.

“And this is no dream. This is as real as the fact that, right now, your beloved general is lying unconscious in a puddle of his own blood, in that forest as void as life as your own home village because they were both all-”

“No.”

“-your-”

“ _No_.”

“-fault.”

Durbe closed his eyes.

“Isn’t Mizael better off knowing how you did it? How you survived the poison sacrifice and how you entered the Dragoon Village?”

“I don’t know how I survived,” Durbe whispered, and he was too afraid at that moment to realize exactly what the god had said. “I wish I hadn’t.”

Don Thousand laughed again. Durbe was sure he would hear the sound ringing through his ears every waking moment for the rest of his life. “You survived because I wanted you to,” he said simply. “Every aspect of your life, from your miserable birth to your village’s demise to you becoming a lord – all the way up to your inglorious death in the near future has been exactly as I wanted it.”

“My inglorious death?” Durbe breathed out the words shakily. “You’ve planned for me to die all along? Then what was the point of my existence?”

It was the same question he had asked Mizael the night before. Only, while Mizael promised him completeness and companionship and loyalty and a future, Don Thousand’s purpose for him… was much lonelier.

“You are my Herald of Death, Durbe. Never to take a life with your own hands, but always causing it by your cursed presence. Never holding the sword that kills, but always bathing your hands in the blood that flows.”

Durbe finally convinced himself to turn, but no one was there. The knot in his chest hurt so much he felt like throwing up; he wanted to cry, to lie down and fall into a dreamless sleep and never wake up. But he couldn’t. He had too much to do, too much to lose.  

“Lord Durbe?”

It was Thomas Arclight, turning the corner. His hair was more unruly than usual and there was an unsteadiness to his gait which suggested that perhaps he had broken out a few too many stiff drinks the night before.

“Lord Thomas,” Durbe found himself saying in an oddly calm voice. His heart was still hammering painfully. “What are you doing out of bed so early?”

Thomas narrowed his eyes and rubbed at his nose. “Couldn’t sleep. What are _you_  doing here?” He peered down the hall. “I thought I heard you talking.”

“To myself,” Durbe said in the same level voice. “I find it difficult to sleep sometimes without going for a walk to clear my head.” He excused himself and tried to pass the young lord, but Thomas’s voice froze Durbe’s legs once more.

“Isn’t this the hallway to General Mizael’s quarters?”

There was no reason for Durbe to be down here, and in his bedclothes, robe, and slippers, heading away from Mizael’s bedroom. Durbe had to think fast. “I know that General Mizael was planning on running an errand for me early this morning.” That part wasn’t exactly a lie. “I’d hoped to catch him before he left so he could send a message to one of the other lords for me, but he left earlier than I anticipated.”

Thomas nodded slowly. Did he buy it? After what seemed an eternity, he rubbed his hand over his face – over the scar on his eye, given to him by bandits, or so he claimed – and walked away. Durbe waited ten seconds before he broke into a run in the opposite direction, back to his own room.

He didn’t know if Don Thousand was telling the truth about Mizael being alone and unconscious in the forest. He knew where Mizael was; he could go to him if he wasn’t back before too long, but he barely had energy to walk down the hall, let alone craft a portal. What concerned Durbe most at that moment was that Don Thousand was able to speak to him in person to begin with. That should have been impossible; even the gods of the Astral World were not able to appear physically in the mortal realm, and Don Thousand was no different. Not unless someone acted as a vessel for him. And the only way to accomplish that… was through a ritual. A horrible ritual involving mass murder.

_Poison sacrifice._

One of the other lords had poisoned his village as a sacrifice in exchange for Don Thousand’s powers.

—-

The fires that had ripped through Heartland City for two days petered to a smolder. Whatever Vector was doing – or had done – seemed to have worked. Either that or the rebels had run out of supplies, just as Vector said they would when the waterways were blocked off. Ilya hated the fact that _Vector_ had been the one to bail her out. She would never hear the end of this disaster.

A bloody knife landed tip-down on the wooden table, and Ilya turned to see Vector walk through the doors to the dining area that Ilya had turned into a command center, looking thoroughly irritated.

“Your little lieutenant wasn’t anywhere that I could find him, and no one I spoke to knew where he was, either,” he said in lieu of a proper greeting. He threw himself into a seat at the table and slouched in the chair.

“Wine?” Pherka offered tonelessly, pointing to the unopened bottle on the table.

Vector glared at her for a second before pulling the knife out of the table and holding it up. Blood dripped from the tip as though it were water; the very metal of the blade carried the slightest hint of a reddish hue to it that had nothing to do with the blood. “I think you’ve grossly underestimated just how dangerous these humans have the possibility of being.”

“They’re just humans,” Pherka said with a shrug. “Nothing we haven’t handled before.”

“Humans with the weaponry to kill Barians?” Vector’s voice was terse, uncharacteristic of him. “This knife is infused with something that reminds me very distinctly of how Baria Crystal affects humans and creatures of the Astral World. I managed to pry it from a human’s charred fingers after I watched him kill three Barian soldiers with it.”

Ilya gripped the back of the chair she was leaning on. Had Fuya known of this weapon? But no, if he had, he would have killed her at first opportunity. Someone he knew, then, or at least someone who had contact with him. Fuya had been behind Heartland’s disappearance; Ilya was positive of that. He was the only one who knew that Heartland was going to be on that grain ship. He and Ilya… and Durbe and Mizael.

Everything came back to those two. If Durbe had orchestrated the attack on that ship, hired people to commit the murders, to kidnap Heartland and hide him somewhere the other lords couldn’t find him, all while ensuring that Fuya heard the whole plan so Durbe could put it back on Ilya… Mizael would have gone along with it without complaint. Durbe could have lessened his own load while dumping the blame on Ilya.

But Ilya had leverage. She could ruin Durbe at any time. And he was tired, distracted, and overworked. He wouldn’t have had time to concoct this entire mess. Profit from it indirectly, perhaps, but not orchestrate it. No, no, this was Lieutenant Okudaira.

Vector watched her, and she swore he was smiling. “Dearest Illy, the upholstery is smoking.”

She wrenched her hands away from the chair. Sure enough, she had started a small fire, which she extinguished. “Durbe may tolerate your obnoxious pet names for him but I will not.”

“For a witch of such small stature, you sure talk big.”

The only thing preventing Ilya from grabbing the knife on the table and thrusting it into Vector’s chest at that moment was Pherka’s firm grip on her wrists. She was a  _lord;_ she was not the scared child with uncontrolled powers that she once was. “I am not a  _witch_ , Vector.”

Vector shrugged. “I’ll just take this, lest darling Illy get the idea to try to kill me again.” He reached for the knife but Pherka released Ilya and stepped closer to the table fast enough to grab it first.

“Let  _you_  have a weapon like this?” Pherka snorted. “Not a chance. This is going to Polara. We’ll have a meeting to discuss what to-”

“Oh  _God_ ,” Vector groaned. “Another meeting? We must have had fifteen meetings in the past two weeks.”

“Oh yes, and you would know because you attended so  _many_  of them,” Pherka said, dropping her stoic tone in favor of a sarcastically disapproving one.

“It is important,” Ilya interrupted icily, “to figure out where the humans obtained such a weapon, and more importantly, whether there are more of them.”

Someone knocked on the door, slowly and with effort. Pherka weighed the dagger in her hand and lifted an eyebrow at Ilya, who returned her gaze with a reluctant nod. They weren’t expecting anyone, and unless the guards were all dead, no one should have been able to get through the palace. Ilya readied a wave of fire and she could feel the air around Vector crackle with power as well.

A red-haired woman holding a bloodstained sword practically collapsed into the room, straining with the effort to keep a tall man on his feet. She failed, and fell to her knees, pulling the man along with her. Both wore wet clothing and were covered in blood; the man’s long hair was in bloody clumps, plastered to his ashen face. More blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth, and he loosely held a filthy cloth to a gash on his stomach. He seemed barely conscious.

“What in God’s name-” Vector breathed, half-standing.

“Pirates,” Akari Tsukumo managed to whisper. “Going to… use us for finding out about what you bastards are… planning… blockaded river, had to fight our w-” She cut off abruptly with a whimper and dropped the sword with a clatter. “Oh gods, my head…”

“I’ll get the Healer,” Pherka said, stepping around them with a grimace.

Ilya crouched down next to them, surveying the damage. The Tsukumo woman’s eyes were unfocused and she had a steady stream of blood trickling from her forehead. Her dress shone with blood that was probably not hers; Ilya couldn’t see any tears in the fabric that would indicate that she had been wounded. Christopher Arclight, on the other hand, had a deep bruise on his cheek. In addition to his stomach wound, he carried the hand holding the cloth gingerly, as though it were broken.

“Where is Alasco?” Vector stood behind Ilya and stared down at the pair. “Wasn’t he aboard the ship as well?”

“Stupid bastard bailed at the last moment,” Akari said through her gritted teeth.

“What did the pirates want?”

“Hell if I kn-” She cut off with a pained whine and threw up all over the marble floor at Ilya’s feet. It was  _disgusting_ ; Ilya stepped away quickly and almost backed into Vector. She knew Pherka had just left to fetch the Healer, but she wished they would hurry and get here. She wanted to know exactly what had happened that left the heirs to the Arclight throne in such a condition, who was behind it, and how they made it all the way through the palace holding a weapon, but there would be no coherent answers until the blood was stifled and the wounds cleaned and dressed.

Three guards stood at the entrance to the room, Pherka behind them, and at her order, they bent to pick up the pair to carry them to the infirmary down the hall. Akari’s fingers fumbled for her sword but Vector placed his foot over it.

“Ah, you won’t be needing that,” he said as pleasantly as if he were about to drop the woman in a cage of flesh-eating centipedes. He followed the guards out. “Place them in separate parts of the infirmary and have someone in there at all times. Make sure they are interviewed individually. We want the complete truth as to what happened to these two.”

If Vector’s condescension wasn’t bad enough, now he was assuming control over a situation that was Ilya’s. She grabbed his arm, taking care to dig her uneven fingernails into his skin. It had been too long since she had trimmed and filed them, but unlike Vector, she had no time to sit around and groom herself on a whim. “These two are  _mine_ ,” she hissed, drawing herself up to full height, which was still several inches too short to be eye level with Vector. “You will have no part in the interrogation. I no longer need your assistance.”

Vector lifted an eyebrow, evidently surprised for a moment. Then he shrugged. “All right, Illy. I guess I’ll go back to Arclight and have a chat with Durbiekins. See if he knows anything that’s going on. Good luck with the pair of them. The woman is quite obstinate.”

Ilya highly doubted Durbe would know anything about  _this_  situation, but she let him go. The less she had to put up with him, the better. In any case, it was time to figure out straight from the Arclight couple what their story was.

—-

A few large, probably vicious bears barred Anna’s southwesterly path back into the Wyvern Forest, so she ended up backtracking, which led to her wandering the other direction, back uphill as the heavens poured water on the mountainside. She was tired, cold, wet, hungry, sore, and pissed, and when she finally realized that she had ended up entirely too far northeast, she decided to keep going. It wasn’t as though she had anywhere else  _to_  go.

She blamed Yuma for suddenly having no backbone against the man she thought was supposed to be his best friend, and she blamed Ryoga for being the stupidest human being ever to walk the planet and for having a death wish not only for himself but for everyone he knew, and she blamed Droite and Gauche for dragging her up the mountain in the first place, and she was sure she could think of a dozen other people to blame for her countless misfortunes, but thinking about it only made her angrier, and when she was angry, she became more lost.

“Damn it,” she said to a stunted oak tree. “What did I do to deserve this?”

The tree didn’t answer and she kicked it, immediately regretting her decision at the sharp throbbing in her big toe. Over her loud curses, a scream from a little farther east filled the air, which, she suddenly realized, held no other sound – no birds chirping, no rustle of wind in the leaves, no buzzing of insects or crunch of twigs from scampering rodents – just an eerie, lifeless silence.

Common sense told her to turn back and go the other way and completely ignore the scream – a man’s scream of pain, she was sure of it – but what if the man was being killed by some kind of wild animal?  _It’ll kill you, too,_  the smart part of her said, but the less smart part of her controlled her legs, and she moved on, eastward. Toward the screaming. Toward danger, instead of away from it. Gods above, she had lost her mind being around those people.

The only reason she knew she was headed east at this point was because the rising sun started pushing feebly through the clouds directly ahead of her. As she walked, as quickly as it broke the silence, the scream stopped. It didn’t trail off, the way screams do, nor was it punctuated by sobs or moans or gargling sounds that someone getting their throat ripped open might make. She could only have been a quarter mile from him when she started, so he had to be around here… somewhere…  _There_.

The first thing she saw was the hole dug into the earth. Next to it, a tall, lanky man lay in a heap on the forest floor, facing away from her, with his long blond hair tangled in twigs and leaves and matted with mud. As she approached him, she saw a slender, beautifully crafted sword in one filthy hand, blood shining on the tip of the blade; it was immaculate despite the fact that the rest of the man was covered in mud. A broken slab of bloodstained rock rested nearby.

“Hey.” Anna stood a few feet back, looking around for any kind of creature that the man might have wounded, but she neither saw nor heard anything else in the entire area. For that matter, the man himself didn’t _look_ injured; the only blood she could see on him was a shallow wound on his left forearm, and that certainly wouldn’t have elicited a scream like that… would it?

She knelt down, placed her hand on his shoulder, and shook him gently. He didn’t move, but when she rolled him over onto his back, it took every ounce of self-control that she had practically abandoned in the past few weeks not to scream herself.

If the dangling golden ornament in the man’s hair wasn’t enough to give his identity away, the prominent red marks on his pale face certainly did.

She scrambled away from him, letting his head drop to the forest floor, and backed into a tree roughly six feet away from him.

_Oh gods, oh gods, why is this happening to me._

He didn’t have any other injuries, just the shallow arm wound, and now that she saw him clearly, it seemed to have been self-inflicted. But there wasn’t _enough_ blood for him to have bled out, and she was pretty sure he was still alive at any rate – she saw his chest move – and his eyes were closed as if he were sleeping. What the hell had happened to him that would have caused him to scream like that and then collapse into unconsciousness? And his sword…

Using the tree for balance, she clambered to her feet and turned to run. If she could get away before he woke up, she had to take this information back to-

“Don’t get mixed up with them again,” she whimpered as she stumbled through the trees, but  _someone_ had to know that General Mizael was lying unconscious and injured on the forest floor with Kaito Tenjo’s sword.


	52. The Little Barian

For two days, Vector would not let Durbe out of his sight.

At first, it was only moderately irritating, as he remonstrated at length about how Ilya was handling things in Heartland, he complained about the weather and the lack of hospitality Durbe showed him, and how badly Byron’s new court musician sang off-key. But as more time passed, Durbe became more worried about Mizael, who still had not returned. Each time he tried to excuse himself, Vector found some way or another to hold Durbe up – letters to read, messages to send, a constant reminder that Durbe had  _more important things to worry about_ than one Barian general with a lengthy history of authority issues.

“Where  _is_ darling Miza, anyway?” Vector wondered in between updating Durbe on the situation with Christopher Arclight and Akari Tsukumo (injured fighting river pirates who had attempted to kidnap them, or so Durbe understood it). “I haven’t seen him in, mmm, two days now? I do hope he didn’t get sick again.” Vector sighed, resting his chin on his propped-up fist. “What a shame that would be, eh? And this close to his soulday.”

“He is doing research for me,” Durbe said curtly, placing his hands on his lap, out of Vector’s sight. They were shaking, and he couldn’t let Vector see that he was scared.

“Ooh? What kind of research?”

“Nothing you would understand.” Durbe wished Vector would leave for even five minutes so Durbe could go find Mizael. It was as though Vector knew something was agitating him and was doing this deliberately. Time was essential, and the longer Mizael was gone, the less chance Durbe would have to find him before someone else did.

_Or to find him alive._

“Oh come  _on_ , Durbie.” Vector pouted unconvincingly. “I gave you that map. I’ve been telling you everything you need to know about how much Ilya is screwing up Heartland. I stab your back, you stab mine- no, wait.” He tapped the area under his nose where his mouth would be on his human form and his face scrunched in a frown. “That’s not how that saying goes.”

“You gave me that information of your own volition,” Durbe said tonelessly, flipping pages in the book on the table without comprehending a word of it. “I am not obligated to return the favor.”

“Ugh.” Vector rolled his eyes. “You’re so  _boring_. And rude. Give me a hint?”

Durbe shut the book and stood. Vector followed him out of the library. He wouldn’t even let Durbe sleep without hovering over him – not that Durbe _could_  sleep, with Mizael gone and Don Thousand’s taunts constantly resonating in his mind. “I don’t know how you expect me to get any work done when all you do is blather incessantly.”

“ _Work_ ,” Vector repeated with a snort.

Durbe forced himself to take a breath before replying. “Yes, you should try it sometime.”

“What are you working on that you don’t want the rest of us to know about? Seven lords, one mind, remember?”

As if Vector believed that to begin with. And Durbe would never even hint at the fact that he had Haruto Tenjo under his watch now. The boy was eerily quiet; Durbe had him placed in comfortable guest quarters on the third floor of the palace and sealed his powers with the Baria Crystal, but he didn’t have the opportunity to speak to Haruto just yet because of Vector’s meddling. “You’re still in charge of the search for Prince Astral, if I may remind you.”

“I don’t need to  _search_ for him,” Vector said dismissively. “I know  _where_  he is. Unfortunately,  _someone_ ” – he dragged the word out and gave Durbe a meaningful look – _“_ won’t share the secrets of penetrating the Dragoon wards, so I can’t get  _to_  him.”

“You had plenty of opportunity.” Durbe led Vector down to the first floor, as far away from Haruto’s room as possible. The crystal neutralized Haruto’s powers, including the aura he gave off. Still, it was better safe than sorry where Vector was concerned. It wouldn’t do for him to go poking around there, too. “It’s not my fault you’d rather play with your food than eat it.”

“That’s an interesting metaphor to use toward someone with no mouth,” Vector said, gesturing toward his face. “Ah well. I think I’ll head back to Heartland and see if Illy has been able to narrow down where Lord Heartland might have gotten off to.”

Durbe held his breath. Was Vector finally leaving?

“Take care, Durbiekins.” Vector winked at Durbe before opening a portal. “Say hello to Mizzy for me. I do hope he’s feeling all right.” And with that, he vanished.

Durbe waited thirty seconds to make sure Vector wasn’t coming back before opening his own portal. It was time to go back to the Dragoon Village.

—-

Yuma hadn’t been surprised to see Anna, only that she had lasted such a short time before returning to the Shrine, out of breath and covered in scrapes and mud. For some reason, she had seemed bewildered and angry when she saw Kaito and the sword at his waist.

“But  _he_ had it,” she had said, stomping her foot in frustration, and the transformation on Kaito’s face from annoyance to an anger Yuma had never seen before was immediate.

_Who?_

_General Mizael._

They left Ryoga tied up in his room with a hasty order to Kotori that he be fed – force-fed if necessary – until they returned. He’d screamed and cursed in two different languages, and Yuma would have been impressed under almost any other circumstances; Ryoga virtually never spoke the old language, so Yuma had only twice heard Dragoon words uttered out loud before, both times while burying the most important women in his life. Astral had not wanted to come – he had been reserved for the past week and would barely speak to anyone – and neither did the assassins or Cathy or Takashi, so it was just the three of them – Yuma, Kaito, and Anna – and the trip down the mountain took hardly any time at all. It took considerably more time for Anna to figure out which direction she had gone when they reached level ground and they ended up camping for a night, but when she picked a direction, Kaito didn’t question it. Neither did Yuma. They were headed for the remains of the Dragoon Village, and it seemed to  _fit_. Yuma often heard people refer to the solitude and silence of nature. But nature was never silent. There was _always_  sound – the scurrying of small animals in the leaf litter, the rustling of tree branches in the wind, soft trickles of water from nearby streams and cascades, birds singing for one another – but the closer they got to the Dragoon Village, the more  _silent_ it became, where Yuma could hear even the soft thudding of Kaito’s sword hilt against his belt as they walked.

Anna tried to convince herself – and them – that she had probably overreacted.  _He’ll be gone by now, I’m sure_ , she said.  _It’s been almost two days._ But they were already close, and her uneasiness was understandable given the unnatural lifelessness in the forest.

Kaito was oddly quiet for most of the trek, eyes fixed on the trees in front of him, hand occasionally caressing his sword hilt. Yuma wondered what was going through his mind. His brother was gone – captured by the Barians – and his kingdom taken over. And Mizael was one of the Barians who was directly responsible for both things. What would they do if they found him? They couldn’t take him back to the Shrine, because he wouldn’t be able to pass through the ward. Kaito would doubtless want to kill him, and the thought made Yuma nauseous.

Soft whispers came from an area not too far away, and Anna nodded wordlessly in that direction. She let Kaito lead the way, and lagged along behind Yuma, though her footsteps were cautious and reluctant.

One robed figure knelt in a pile of leaf litter, holding a slender body with cascading golden hair, a sword lying nearby. Yuma recognized both the figures and the sword instantly, and judging by the speed with which Kaito unsheathed his own sword, so did he.

Aside from the discarded dragon-engraved sword lying nearby, Durbe was unarmed. He wore thin silk robes around his small human body, unsuitable for the chill in the piedmont forests, and there was not even a knife at his belt. He looked up at the approaching party, face paling and eyes widening in what Yuma recognized as fear.

“Shouldn’t have come here without a weapon, you bastard,” Kaito hissed, taking a step toward them.

Yuma didn’t know what compelled him to reach out and grab Kaito’s wrist. It would have been poetic justice, for the lord and his general to fall in the very place where they had slaughtered Ryoga’s entire clan, but there was something inside of him that didn’t want to see the unarmed Barian lord and his unconscious general murdered.

“Let go,” Kaito snarled, trying to pull free.

“No,” Yuma breathed, gripping Kaito’s arm tighter. He remembered so vividly the eyes of the first Barian he had killed. It should have felt like justice, after all the Barians had done. But it had done nothing but cause him unimaginable guilt every time he closed his eyes. “You’ll never feel complete if you kill them like this.”

“They killed your king and queen!” Kaito’s voice echoed in the silent forest. Anna made a tiny whimpering sound. “These two – they took my brother from me, my kingdom! They deserve to die, and I will be the one to do it!”

Kaito pulled away, stronger this time, and Yuma had to wrap his arms around Kaito’s body, pinning his arms to the side in order to keep him from lunging at the Barians. “You’ve never killed,” he whispered raggedly into Kaito’s back. “It’s not worth it. It’s not worth your soul.”

“ _This_ is my soul!” Kaito screamed, struggling to lift his sword. “ _They_  saw to that! They took it all! My lover, my soul, my family, my kingdom- you don’t understand what it’s like! You could never understand!”

“I  _do_ understand!” Yuma couldn’t keep the choked sob out of his voice. Did Kaito think he was the only one to lose his family, his kingdom, his soul, and the man he loved? “There’s still forgiveness, there’s still penance as long as you keep yourself from bathing your soul in the blood of revenge.”

“I will feel my soul pierce their worthless bodies.” He might as well have thrust his sword through Yuma’s chest. “I  _will_  bathe my soul in the blood of these monsters and damn the consequences. I’m past saving now.”

“ _The soulless sinner_ ,” Durbe said, and though his voice was soft, it carried clearly through the still air.

“What did you say?”

“ _Seeking penance, offering a stained soul_.” Durbe smiled humorlessly and glanced down at the general in his arms. “Mizael was right again, it seems. I should have let him kill you when we had the chance.”

“What held you back?” Kaito hissed. “It’s not like anything’s stopped you from murdering everyone else who stands in your way.”

“You’re not a killer, Kaito,” Yuma whispered, and he couldn’t keep the tears from falling. He didn’t want to see anyone else fall to revenge. He didn’t want any more deaths. He didn’t want to see Kaito lose himself the same way Yuma had lost himself.

“If you think it would make you feel better, by all means, do it.” Durbe still spoke in that quiet voice. He didn’t even look up to meet Kaito’s eyes, instead remaining fixed on his general’s face. There was something in the way Durbe looked at Mizael, a gentle acceptance in his eyes as he held Mizael tighter and lightly touched a finger to the gemmed helix around Mizael’s neck. Mizael’s soul gem, linked directly to Mizael’s emotions, his very soul. And Yuma remembered something Ryoga had told him once, a long time ago.

_Barians aren’t capable of feeling love._

He knew that wasn’t true. Because he could see something that he never thought he would see. Something that altered his perception of Barians as unfeeling monsters, demons, abominations.

Durbe was crying.

Silent tears, barely perceptible and some lingering at the corners of Durbe’s all-too-human eyes, shadowed and red-rimmed and exhausted, but they were there – as Durbe touched Mizael’s soul gem, he must have felt Mizael’s pain. And there was nothing unfeeling in the way those eyes gazed at Mizael’s face.

“They tortured you.” Kaito didn’t see the same thing Yuma saw. Or maybe he did and didn’t care. “ _He_ carved into your skin and relished your screams of pain and  _broke you_  – I remember what you were like when we rescued you. You- you were  _nothing_. I still see it, I see how broken you are and how much you cling to what you can’t have and goddamn it, Yuma,  _let go of me._ ”

Yuma remembered. He would always remember the agony Durbe put him through. But even through the torture and the interrogation and the emotionless recounting of Yuma’s greatest sins and deepest regrets, he knew that Durbe hadn’t relished it. There had been regret, in both Mizael and Durbe; they had been reluctant. Just as Yuma always thought he was doing the right thing but losing himself, these two Barians – ruthless murderers, both of them – thought what they did was the right thing, even though they lost themselves in it.

He could see himself in Durbe, and he couldn’t stop the tears from welling up in his own eyes.

“Kaito, please.” He forced down the lump in his throat. “Don’t do this.”

“I  _did_  torture you,” Durbe murmured, eyes still locked on his general’s face. “I took your kingdoms and your families and your souls. Just as  _they_  took them from  _us_  first.” There was a hint of bitterness in his voice now.

 _They. They_  must have been the other lords. There was a faint feeling of curiosity nagging in Yuma’s mind at this. He knew nothing of this lord’s past struggles. He knew nothing of this lord’s aspirations, or why Mizael followed him without reservation. But before he could indulge his curiosity, Durbe straightened up, holding Mizael tight to his chest, and looked Kaito straight in the eyes.

“Kill me, then, if it will lay your soul to rest,” he said quietly to Kaito. “But I ask one favor of you before you satisfy your desires for revenge.”

“A favor?” Kaito snorted. “A favor for a Barian with no leverage to be asking for one.”

“It is true,” Durbe murmured. “You have us unarmed and weak. My request is simple, and I am sure you will not object. Kill both of us. Kill us together.”

Yuma choked back another sob. Durbe didn’t try to barter for Mizael’s life, didn’t try to pretend that Mizael acted solely on his orders for his entire life. He wanted to die together with Mizael, because he didn’t want to die alone. He didn’t want to be without Mizael, in this life or the next.

Gods above, Barian Emperor Durbe loved General Mizael.

“And what if I killed only you?” Kaito whispered.

“Then General Mizael would take his own life before the other lords did.” Durbe’s mouth quivered for such a brief moment that Yuma almost thought he’d imagined it. “I’m the only thing keeping them from killing him now, you see.”

“What if  _he_  were to die?” And Yuma had a feeling he knew the answer before Anna even finished asking the question.

There was a long pause. Even Kaito stopped straining against Yuma’s hold to watch Durbe struggle to respond.

“Without Mizael,” he said slowly, in a barely audible voice, studying Mizael’s face once more, “I have no future. We were building it together, the two of us. A better future for our homeland.”

In that moment, Yuma remembered Ryoga’s promise to him.  _It’ll be just us, for as long as we live. We’ll make our own future together._ These Barians, these soulless monsters… wanted the same thing.

Kaito took advantage of Yuma’s temporary distraction to wrench one arm free, and it was, naturally, his sword arm. He took a step toward Durbe, dragging Yuma with him. “Then I will take your future from you and force you to watch, just as you did to me. I’m going to make you live with your failures, alone.”

“Kaito, no-”

“I won’t let you,” Durbe breathed, pulling Mizael to the side, closer to the discarded sword lying in a small pool of stale blood. Renewed energy filled Kaito at the motion, and Yuma knew that if Durbe didn’t get the sword first, Kaito was going to be successful in killing him.

 _Why do I care?_  He hated the Barians. He hated what they did to his kingdom, to his friends, and to him. It was his sworn duty to bring down the Barian Empire, and this lord… this lord was in the way of that. For Astral to become King, Durbe had to die, along with the other lords. And there was no telling how many more lives would be lost if he didn’t let Kaito do it.

“But not like this,” he whispered, releasing Kaito.

The force with which Kaito had strained against Yuma’s grasp caused Kaito to stumble forward and lose his footing; in that critical moment, Yuma’s own sword was in his hand and between Kaito and the lord kneeling on the ground. Durbe held Mizael’s sword clumsily in one hand, with his other arm stretched across Mizael’s chest, and he took heavy, shuddering breaths as he looked up into Yuma’s face.

Yes, there was fear there.

“Get out of my way,” Kaito said in a dangerously quiet voice.

“No.” Yuma turned to face Kaito. Ryoga would have pitched a fit, with Yuma leaving his back open to the enemy, but at the moment, he couldn’t find enough in him to care. An odd energy coursed through his body, and he felt as though he could sprint up the mountain. “Stand down, Kaito.”

“If you don’t get out of my path, I will  _make_ you move.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Kaito’s face contorted with fury as he lunged toward Yuma with both hands on the hilt of his sword. Yuma ignored Anna’s gasp and countered it easily. The look in Kaito’s mismatched eyes was a pure, frightening hatred. He was entirely prepared to kill.

“Get away from here,” Yuma said to the lord. The words sounded distant. “Next time, I can’t promise that you will survive.”

Yuma didn’t expect a  _thank you_  from the lord, and he didn’t get one. But when he parried Kaito’s increasingly desperate attempts to get past him, he saw Durbe straining with the effort to open a portal, and his forehead was touching Mizael’s.

Kaito screamed. Unable to get past Yuma, he threw his sword like a javelin toward the slowly vanishing Barians.

It landed tip-down in the mud, exactly where they had just been.

“ _Damn it_!” Kaito fell to his knees and slammed his fist into the mud. “Why the hell did you stop me, Yuma? After everything they did to you, you let them  _leave_!”

Yuma resisted the urge to fall to his own knees and instead propped himself up on his sword. The sudden spike of energy was draining from him like water in a sieve. “Anna, are you okay?”

Anna clutched a tree, face buried in the bark. She shook her head rapidly, and her nose scraped the rough wood. “You idiots, you  _idiots_ , why would you… oh gods.”

With a great deal of effort, Yuma walked over to her and pulled her away from the tree. She shoved her face in his chest instead and punched him weakly in the gut. He probably deserved it, so he bit back a grunt. “When we left the palace, when  _they_  invaded… Ryoga wanted me to make him a promise.”

_They stood together on the mountainside, staring out at the Barian crest on the flags and banners on the palace that had, until yesterday, been theirs. Ryoga approached hesitantly, and he tried unsuccessfully to speak before closing his mouth again and fiddling with his spear instead._

_There was so much Yuma wanted to say. What they were planning to do was suicidal, and his chest hurt – physically hurt – with the thought that he might never see Ryoga again. He wanted to wrap his arms around Ryoga’s waist, to feel him just once._

_But he couldn’t._

_“Yuma,” Ryoga said finally, looking him in the eyes. “Promise me you won’t die.”_

_“I-”_

_“And promise me you won’t lose yourself. Ever. You have a… a good heart. Don’t lose it to revenge. It’s so hard to bring yourself back from the darkness, and you don’t belong there.”_

_Yuma flinched. What could he say to that? “You either, Ryoga.”_

“It’s… it’s hard, Kaito.” Yuma bit his quivering lip. He was so tired of the tears. He was so tired of the pain. “That’s why I stopped you. Because it will never satisfy you. Once you take a life in cold blood, you’re a killer. One life, a hundred – it doesn’t matter. And you’ll hate everything about yourself for the rest of your life.”

Kaito’s hand trembled so much that it took him three tries to place his sword back in its sheath. “I already hate everything about myself. Don’t try to control someone else’s destiny when you don’t even have a good grasp on your own.”

Without another word, he vanished.

Yuma stared at the spot where Kaito had been standing. It was impossible to reason with the man. And Yuma couldn’t exactly blame him. He pulled Anna away from his chest. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m a  _merchant_ ,” she whimpered, rubbing her face. “I’m just… I’m…” She stared up at him. “I’m stuck in this now, aren’t I? They saw me. They know I’m… with you.”

He hadn’t thought of that. But she was right, and so was he. She never would be able to escape this now that her fate had been tied to theirs. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” she muttered. “What now?”

It would take a couple of days to return to the Shrine. He wasn’t sure he had the energy left to climb the mountain again, and his feet were sore and blistered from the trek down. Anna looked worse for the wear; she had gone down the mountain, back up, and down again in less than a week. He didn’t want to force her to go back again, especially since they both knew what would happen when they returned.

“How well do you know this area?” he murmured.

“Here?” Anna snorted. “About as well as I know the city of Baria. When we get a little more westward, I know it pretty well, though.” Her eyes widened in realization and she slapped her forehead. “Oh gods, the weapons. I told Tetsuo I’d be back in a week to get them.”

“Weapons?”

“The weapons we went into the goddamn Sargasso Waste to get to  _begin_ with?” She shook her head. “You must be real preoccupied to forget about those.” She groaned. “Shit, I hope he didn’t sell them to someone else. That’s just the sort of thing he would do.”

“How long will it take to get to him?”

Anna frowned. “From here? I dunno. Three, maybe four days?”

“It’ll take us at least two to get back to the Shrine,” Yuma muttered. His mind raced. If they could get those weapons, they would have an advantage against the Barians. There had once been an outpost of the Astral Guard not too far from here on the other side of the mountains. It was probably gone by now, but there was a possibility that they could figure out what happened to the soldiers stationed there. It was part of Ryoga’s plan to break into the Astral Palace and kill Vector. He wanted Yuma to be the one to do it.

_This isn’t him._

The real Ryoga never would have asked this of Yuma.

_Get the real him back._

Yuma didn’t know if Ryoga had given himself over to the Barian in his soul or if something else had happened. He couldn’t imagine Ryoga willingly letting something control him, least of all a Barian. But then, he had been grieving. Who knew what that grief might have led to?

Well, he knew  _one_  thing Ryoga’s grief had led to.

“Anna,” he said quietly, “we have to get the weapons before Ryoga does.”

“ _What_?”

“Trust me.” He gripped her shoulder and she stared at his hand. “Anna, this is important. You said that the captain’s plan was stupid.”

“Uh, yeah, because it  _is._ ”

“You’re right.” Yuma took a deep breath.  _It’s not Ryoga. He would never do this._ “Will you help me stop him?”

—-

The only good thing that happened to Durbe that day was when they arrived back at Arclight – ingloriously falling through the portal together – and Mizael opened his eyes.

He was resting now; the Healer had all but shoved Durbe out of the infirmary when they arrived, Durbe pretending that Mizael was relapsing from the poison. Durbe was too tired to figure out what had caused Mizael’s shallow injury, nor did he have any idea why Mizael was unconscious in the forest for two days. It was probably a good thing that the Healer hadn’t noticed that Durbe was barely standing. Opening a portal for himself was one thing; opening it for two – one of whom wasn’t even conscious – took a greater toll on his body than Durbe even wanted to think about. It might have taken as much as two months of his remaining life energy to bring them both back to Arclight. Two months, when all Durbe might have left was a few years unless he and Mizael could acquire the Dragon’s energy and power. And that was the most optimistic estimate. More likely, at this rate, he had only a few months.

But then, he thought grimly as he walked outside, he would have been killed sooner if he’d stayed. No matter how much Yuma pleaded with Kaito – strange, to see the same man who had suffered so much at Durbe’s hands petition to save him, even stand between him and Kaito’s sword – Kaito would not have held back. Of this, Durbe was certain.  

The courtyard smelled of fresh, late spring rain and about eight different types of roses. Durbe paused by a bush full of vivid yellow flowers and watched as a honeybee busily collected the nectar from one rose before zipping out of sight. In the tree overhead, a squirrel squeaked, nose twitching as it sniffed at the under-ripe apples.

It was truly amazing how interested in horticulture Lord Byron was. Or had been. He wasn’t interested in much anymore but accessing the secrets of the Astral World, and Durbe and Mizael had been responsible for that.

Durbe had never been much for being outdoors. There was always far too much to do inside the palace, always things to be researched in the dark, silent library. Outside, there was too much noise, too many distractions. It was too easy to feel too at ease. And he couldn’t afford to be at ease. Especially not now.

But he  _needed_  a distraction from his current dilemmas. Mizael was alive and conscious, but Durbe would never forget how cold Mizael’s skin had been when he held him in that forest. Vector had gotten into his head, starting with Alit and Gilag’s deaths. Don Thousand’s taunts troubled him. He needed to think, needed to understand why his generals had been killed, so he could keep Mizael from meeting the same fate, so he wouldn’t have to bury his only remaining friend in this garden as well. He needed to think of a way to prove it was Vector who had done it. He needed to unlock Haruto’s powers, to help Mizael gain the powers he had sworn an oath to help Mizael attain, and that he and Mizael had almost died for. He needed to figure out what to do with Kaito. He needed to know which lord harbored Don Thousand’s powers, because then he could discover who knew about the poison, which in turn would lead him to the lord responsible for trying to kill him with it. He needed to know what Don Thousand meant when he said that Durbe’s life would end soon, and what Don Thousand had in mind for him all this time.

He needed, he needed, he needed. It was too much, and he was  _out_  of time.

He sat on a cold stone bench, the Arclight family crest carved ornately in the backrest. They had been a happy family, once. One more casualty of the Barian Empire’s manifest destiny. As he rubbed his hand across his eyes, he heard self-assured footsteps approaching and tensed up.

“Durbie! Fancy meeting you outside of your self-imposed prison. I guess you finally realized that your weak human body needs sunlight every so often.” He giggled. “Like a delicate flower, hmm?”

Durbe clenched his jaw to keep from retorting. With three deep breaths, he stood and began walking the opposite direction. It wasn’t a wise move, leaving his back open to Vector, but he wanted nothing less than to speak with the emperor.

Unfortunately, Vector caught up quickly. “Ignoring me? What did I do this time, Durbie?”

“I don’t wish to speak with you, Vector.”

Vector sighed dramatically. “Well, that’s a pity, because I came here to speak with you. I’ve a message for you from the other emperors.”

Durbe slowed, closing his eyes in resignation. It had been only a matter of time. All of Vector’s meddling had upset his plans, and now he was to pay the price.  “What do they want?”

“They want you to relinquish control of either Arclight or Tenjo to one of the rest of us. It seems you aren’t fit to be ruler of multiple kingdoms after all.”

In mid-step, Durbe froze. It was worse than he had feared. Giving up Heartland had been difficult enough, but he needed to be in charge of Tenjo, and Arclight was the most powerful kingdom on the continent. Giving either of them to Vector would ruin him. Everything that he had dedicated his life to would be for nothing.

Alit and Gilag would have died for nothing.

“I was promised two months. It has been barely one. Do the others feel that I have ruled poorly over my domain?” Despite himself, Durbe was pleased to hear the steadiness in his voice. “Or are they simply unaware that every problem I have had since this campaign began has been because you feel the need to insert yourself in my plans?”

Perhaps he expected Vector to be annoyed or even angry with his blunt denunciation, but to his surprise, Vector chuckled as he stroked a thorny rosebush. “Have you not discussed all your grievances with the others? Or has something held you back?” He turned from the rose bush and patted Durbe’s face. Durbe’s forced his expression to remain impassive. “Have you been worried the others might find out that you and your sweetheart are plotting their collective downfall behind their backs?”

Not for the first time, Durbe wondered how Vector always seemed to know things he shouldn’t. Well, most of it. He was not entirely correct about the nature of his relationship with Mizael. “Are you accusing me of indecency and treason? Again?”

“No, I’m not accusing you of it. I  _know_  it. You and Mizael are plotting, always plotting. Locked up, alone, and plotting.”

Durbe fought the shaking in his legs that urged him to sit down. But try as he might to force his legs to move forward, they remained rooted. “And what evidence do you have of my alleged plotting?”

Vector’s eyes lit up in a mischievous half-smile. “Oh, it’s a lovely story. I call it  _The Little Barian_. Tell me if you’ve heard this one.” He giggled at Durbe’s stony expression. “Okay, it starts a long time ago, in an impoverished village on the edge of the Sargasso Waste.”

Durbe’s blood ran cold.

“There was a little Barian who lost both his parents to a terrible plague. He and his sick little brother, with no parents and no money, couldn’t afford a Healer to help. They turned to the local magistrate in the hopes that he would take pity and inform the Barian Lords of the state of their village. But the magistrate ignored them. In desperation, the little Barian underwent a long and painful journey to the Barian capital, leaving his brother, too weak to travel, alone. When he reached his destination, he went to the Lords and begged them to help his village, to send aid to the sick and dying. Instead of their sympathies, the Lords had the audacity to blame  _him_  for the sickness in the village.”

“That’s enough,” Durbe whispered, turning his back on Vector, burying his head in his hands.

Vector ignored him. “Angry, disillusioned, and scared, the little Barian offered up his life in service to the Barian Kingdom’s military in return for clemency. They agreed, because such a pitifully weak Barian would never last in combat, and for the first time in his miserable life, the little Barian received payment for his enlistment. He tried to return to his village, maybe to secure a Healer to look after those who still lived in the village. But when he returned,  _everyone_  was dead, including his baby brother.”

Kaid had been dead for nearly two weeks when Durbe finally returned. The insects had gotten to his body, starting with Kaid’s eyes. At least Durbe didn’t have to see the pain and betrayal in his brother’s lifeless gaze.

“In anguish, the little Barian vowed to find a way to destroy the Barian government and bring up a ruler he believed would be just and merciful.”

Durbe bit his lip against the tears welling in his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, because he knew he would lose control of his emotions. _How does he know all of this?_

“The little Barian began sneaking out at night, taught himself how to read, and began to research how to overthrow his rulers. In the process, he met another Barian who promised to help him, and they made a blood oath to each other. When the little Barian came up with the entire scheme to destroy the Dragoon village, with the support and admiration he received at home, he was given the title of Lord. He was one step closer to his dream. He was one step closer to raising himself up to be the King of the Barians. And everything went his way for years. But then, without warning, everything started… to fall… apart.” Vector stood right behind Durbe and caressed Durbe’s cheek with a clawed finger. Durbe flinched and tried to pull away, but Vector gripped his shoulder with his other hand, pulling him back. “The subjects in the kingdoms he controlled were too independent for him to control. They did things on their own that he never could have foreseen with all his calculations. And two of the little Barian’s most loyal warriors were killed.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he placed his head next to Durbe’s ear. “All because… of him.”

Every ounce of self-restraint in Durbe, the hard-mastered calm and impassive exterior he fought so hard to radiate evaporated as he wheeled on Vector, forgetting that he was in his human form, weaker by far than Vector in his Barian form, forgetting in that moment that Vector had killed two powerful warriors without batting an eye. He grabbed Vector by the base of the neck and shoved him into a nearby cherry tree. Vector’s expression was one of mild surprise mingled with disgust, probably unable to believe that Durbe would dare touch him in his human form.

“I will kill you, Vector,” Durbe breathed.

“I could rip you in half,” Vector said with a half-laugh. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Just as I did to Alit and Gilag, and just as I will do to your precious Mizael.”

Durbe pressed his thumbs deeper into Vector’s neck. “You  _bastard_.”

Vector’s eyes flinched ever so slightly at Durbe’s pressure. “I’m so surprised to see you lose  _control_  like this. Do your little friends mean that much to you? You know, don’t you ever wonder how I know things that you’re trying so desperately to conceal from me? Things only you and Mizael know?”

He was trying to goad Durbe into admitting how afraid he was. Durbe knew this. But it was something he wondered far too much. And it was true. The only living creature on this earth who knew his past in such detail… was Mizael.

 “You and Mizael are so very close.” Vector giggled. “ _So very close_. You would tell him…  _anything_.”

Durbe’s fingernails dug into Vector’s rough flesh as the implication sank in. “How  _dare_  you.”

Vector rolled his eyes. “ _Please_ , next you’re going to insist that  _Mizael would never do that to me_  despite the evidence to the contrary. You place far too many eggs in one basket, as the human saying goes. What if that basket ended up on someone else’s arm?”

“The others will hear about this.”

“Only if you want them to hear also that you’ve been plotting treason with Mizael for a quarter of a century. I doubt they’d take too kindly to that. I bet they’d kill Mizael right in front of you just to see you cry.” He giggled again and waggled a finger. “So, when did you and Miza do the soul thing? Or do you prefer rolling around in your human forms while fucking each other senseless?”

“I want you to look into my eyes,” Durbe whispered raggedly. “Soon, they will be the last you will ever see.”

“I look forward to it,” Vector whispered back. “I expect you to inform everyone in the morning which kingdom you will relinquish. You know how the others hate to be kept waiting.”

Durbe pulled himself away and strode off, disappearing in a portal summoned at the wave of his hand. 


	53. Deceit

_“We seem to have a problem.”_

_That was an understatement if Akari had ever heard one. Her head pounded from a combination of the nauseating rocking motion of the ship and the fact that she’d hardly consumed any food or water in the past few days, though the latter was a form of punishment for not having anything to tell these pirates about the Barians. Aside from_ Alasco is the world’s biggest dick and Vector is probably literally insane, _she really didn’t. Not that they cared. They were pirates. “Just one?”_

_Yamikawa frowned for a moment before tossing a water pouch at her. She caught it, bewildered. “Lady Arclight-”_

_“Tsukumo.”_

_“-I don’t think you’re grasping this situation very well.”_

_“What is there to grasp about being held ransom by pirates?”_

_To her astonishment, Yamikawa lifted his eyebrows at Chris. “I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere with your wife, Lord Arclight.”_

_“I thought we might not,” Chris muttered. He shoved his hair out of his eyes and sighed._

_Akari glanced between the pirate and Chris, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Something was going on between these two, and they had left her out of it, whatever it was. “We? What’s this ‘we’ business, Chris?”_

_Yamikawa let out a low growl and turned his back. “You might as well tell her, Lord Arclight.”_

_“Tell me_ what _, exactly?” If there was anything Akari hated – well, aside from Barians kidnapping her and dragging her into their tangled web of politics with this asshole of a prince – it was being the only one unaware of a situation._

_With a clatter, Yamikawa dropped a pair of swords on the floor in front of them. “The port has been blockaded. We’re going to have to come up with an alternate plan, and quickly.”_

_When Chris nodded, Akari bent down and picked up a sword, aiming it directly at Yamikawa’s neck. She was frustrated as hell; for weeks, she had been helpless to do anything. Helpless to keep herself safe, helpless to keep her grandmother safe. Helpless as she watched her brother suffer at the Barians’ hands. Helpless to do anything as Alasco told her giddily how he had murdered her father. Helpless to fend off these river pirates who had taken her prisoner, all while Chris seemed to be perfectly calm. “I am so goddamn_ tired _of being helpless,” she hissed. “Answers, now.”_

_Chris placed his hand over hers and lowered the sword. “We were going to kill Alasco here. Yamikawa and his crew already have a death warrant on them, so…”_

_It was a decent plan, except for one thing. Well, two, really; the first was that he didn’t tell her about it to begin with. “What about the two of us? We’re supposedly working for the Barians, so how did you expect it to be believable if we walked away unhurt?”_

_A grim smile appeared on Chris’s face. “We_ weren’t _going to emerge unhurt.”_

 _Akari was sure that her heart stopped beating for about ten beats. When she finally managed to open her mouth to speak again, it was accompanied by a swift jab in Chris’s sternum. “You_ dick _. You worthless sack of” –she punched him in the nose- “shit.” Chris grimaced and put his hand to his nose, which was bleeding. But she wasn’t done. “You arranged for these pirates to murder us? What the hell kind of good is that going to do anyone?”_

_“Not murder us,” Chris said thickly, pressing a damp handkerchief to his face. “Wound. We were going to pretend to fight them off and escape, returning to tell the other lords what had happened.”_

_She stared at him, mouth slightly open. “Gods above, you are…” She couldn’t even think of a good word to describe the sheer stupidity of this entire plan._

_He laughed humorlessly and glanced at the splotches of blood on the handkerchief. “Well, we can still hurt Alasco.”_

_“How?”_

_“His reputation.” Yamikawa’s eyes gleamed. “If you two were to make it off this ship alive, you could, with a little luck, convince the others that Alasco wasn’t aboard this ship because he planned for the two of you to be murdered by privateers, whose services Alasco bought.”_

_“I didn’t tell you any of this because I wanted it to be as convincing as possible when we returned to the lords,” Chris said in a soft voice._

_Silence fell in the cabin. Akari closed her eyes. This was getting more and more idiotic by the minute. Everything about this plan was incredibly risky, and the promise of reward for the risk was too low for it to make sense to go ahead and do it._

_“We’re close enough to shore that you can swim to safety,” Yamikawa said, tossing a small cutlass on the floor before turning to the door. “But you’re also close enough that you need to pretend to actually fend us off before you escape, in case anyone is watching. Make your decision quickly, though. We’re going to get noticed for lingering if you wait too long.” With that, he left the cabin, and Akari and Chris stared at one another._

_“I guess we don’t have any choice,” she said finally. “What do you want me to do?”_

_Chris took the sword from her hand and replaced it with the cutlass Yamikawa had left behind. “Stab me.”_

_She laughed nervously. It was short lived, because the tense look on his face was genuine. Her weak smile evaporated. “My gods, you’re serious, aren’t you.”_

_Chris held out his hands and closed his eyes. “The cutlass will leave a different kind of wound than a sword, so you can make it convincing.” His mouth twisted in a grimace. “Not too convincing, though.”_

_Akari stared at the cutlass in her hand. It had an uncomfortable, slightly curved grip. She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to use it to inflict a non-mortal wound on him, but… “May the gods forgive me if I accidentally end up killing my own husband,” she muttered, and Chris’s lips twitched before she gritted her teeth and shoved the cutlass into his side._

—-

_He was barely conscious, and bleeding quite a lot, but Akari muttered curses at him under her breath anyway as she made her way to the edge of the ship, dragging him along. It was a bit of a drop into the cold waters below._

_“I hate you so much,” she grunted, parrying Tokunosuke’s halfhearted attempt to slow her down. “I was_ happy _back in Astral Kingdom with my bookbinding before I got dragged into your mess.” Chris didn’t answer with anything more than an incoherent moan and she took a breath. She wondered if she should exchange some witty banter with Yamikawa before jumping over the side, but she was never very good with witty banter. So she unceremoniously threw Chris into the water first and cursed her father’s very memory before she followed him in._

_—-_

_Rough hands grabbed her, and indistinct voices called out orders. She was freezing, and soaked to the bone as she struggled to open her eyes. A mouthless face materialized over her, but her attempt to scream turned into a fit of coughing._

_“Chris?” she managed to choke out after coughing most of the water out of her lungs. She flung her body over, onto her knees, and tried to scramble away from the Barian who was now calling for blankets. Where was…_

_There he was, still bleeding. He barely breathed._

_“Don’t die, you masochist,” she wheezed, crawling over to him. “I’m not done… yelling at you…”_

_The same rough hands grabbed her shoulders and wrapped a warm blanket around her. “Lady Arclight, we need to get you to the Healer in the palace.”_

Lady Tsukumo,  _she wanted to say, but she nodded hazily. There was blood staining her dress. It might have been Chris’s. She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t remember much._

_She was barely aware of the ship docking, of the Barian leading her and the half-conscious man onto the pier. She barely heard the screams nearby, or the Barian’s abrupt departure with an order to make it to get to the palace. She did smell smoke. Fire… fire was warm._

_She moved toward the fire._

_Somehow, she found her way to the palace. People passed, but none of them gave her more than a quick glance. Up the stairs… mumbled responses to Barian guards about the fire –_ where is the fire? It is so cold –  _but they all seemed preoccupied. She’d never been in the Heartland Palace before. It was tacky as hell, she noted vaguely, but the blood dripping from Chris’s side stained the hideously bright rugs all over the carpeted stairs as she lifted her hand to the nearest door and knocked with as much effort as she could garner._

_Three Barians… one short and blonde, one dark and tall, and the other…_

Vector _…_

_She gritted her teeth and grunted out answers to their questions, but her fingers tried for her sword before Vector stepped on it._

_“You won’t be needing that,” he said cordially. She heard him speak to the short blonde Barian before she felt clawed hands grab her shoulders again and drag her away._

—-

“Hey,” a quiet voice murmured from nearby. “Are you doing all right?”

Akari turned her head wearily toward the man lying on the next bed over. He shifted to a sitting position, wincing slightly. “Am I  _all right_? Even by your standards, that whole damn plan was idiotic, Chris.”

He nodded slowly and put a hand to the bandages on his stomach. “You were convincing enough.”

“Were you going to let me in on your shenanigans had Alasco been on that ship, or were you going to let me continue to think we were going to get killed by river pirates?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Damn right you are.” She slumped back on her pillow and crossed her arms. “How’s your stomach?”

Chris gave a noncommittal grunt. Still hurt, then. Good. He deserved it for what he’d put her through. “You called me your husband.”

“What?”

He turned his head again and a tiny smile twitched at the corners of his lips. “Before you stabbed me. You called me your husband. I never expected you to acknowledge it.”

She didn’t realize that she’d said the word, and cleared her throat before replying huskily. “Whether I like it or not, we  _are_ married. Don’t read too much into it.”

He let out a low chuckle before turning away again and going back to sleep.

As far as the Barians knew, river pirates had boarded the ship looking for Alasco. When they failed to find him, they decided to take the future rulers of Arclight captive and sell them to the highest bidder among Heartland’s mercenaries. Upon reaching Heartland and finding it blockaded, the pirates decided to kill them instead. Akari and Chris fought them off and escaped into the river, Chris taking a painful stomach wound from a cutlass in the process, and they’d been rescued by some Barians on nearby ships who had witnessed the whole thing. A few Barians, including the one who had rescued them before chasing after the quickly retreating pirate ship had even affirmed that what they said happened was the truth.

At least part of Chris’s plan had worked; the pirates had made it away safely.  And Akari couldn’t help but be impressed with him. The fact that he was willing to be stabbed – with the possibility that he could bleed to death before getting Healed – proved one thing to her: he really was serious about fighting the Barians. And  _gods_  was it nice to finally be able to trust someone.

—-

Kaito was unsurprised to see Ryoga sitting at the table in the kitchen. He didn’t even ask how Ryoga got free. It wasn’t as though he expected a half-Barian, half-Dragoon man to stay tied to a bed for two days.

“Where is Yuma?” Prince Astral sat in a chair in the corner, looking up only when Kaito tossed his sword on the table. He regretted it instantly; there was a sharp pain in his chest as it clattered to the wooden surface and he had to grit his teeth to keep it from showing on his face. Astral’s already pale face seemed whiter and more hollowed than ever, and the green marks against his skin almost glowed.

“Not here,” Kaito said sullenly, throwing himself into a chair two seats down from Ryoga. The pain ebbed as quickly as it had flared up.

“Obviously.” Ryoga crossed his arms. In contrast with Astral, who slumped in his seat, Ryoga sat like royalty – straight-backed, chin lifted arrogantly, with his legs crossed. He was in full armor, his hair was washed and pulled up, and his lance was propped against the side of the stone fireplace. “Kindly tell us  _why_.”

“I didn’t come back here to listen to you make demands.” Kaito felt around an inside pocket for the paper he knew was there. It was wet, crumpled, dirty, and smudged from his horrible trek up the mountain, but it was legible enough to recognize the picture of Mata Tenjo. “Prince Astral, I need your assistance.”

“Not until you answer the question,” Ryoga cut in as Astral tensed up.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“I don’t really care.”

The two stood, Ryoga’s rigid posture giving him the illusion of significantly more height than the weary prince he stared down. Kaito’s hand itched for his sword, but just as he was thinking about grabbing it, Astral finally spoke.

“That’s enough.”

Ryoga’s fist clenched, but he lowered himself back in his seat. Kaito glared at the captain for a moment longer before following suit.

“We can’t afford to be fighting amongst ourselves,” Astral murmured, but he looked distracted; his head was turned slightly to the left and he frowned deeply and shook his head slightly, as though listening to someone whispering into his ear. “There aren’t enough people to trust in the world as it is.”

The second sentence was spoken in a barely audible voice. He might have been talking to himself. But Kaito was still angry and shaking and he wasn’t sure if there  _was_ anyone he could trust. “We found an unconscious General Mizael in those woods. And Lord Durbe was with him.”

Ryoga’s head snapped up. “Did you…” His icy blue eyes searched for the door. “Yuma didn’t come back with you. Did…”

“He’s still very much alive,” Kaito said stiffly. “He refused to allow me to kill them and even went so far as to let them escape.”

If what Yuma had said about how the captain had made him promise not to lose himself in revenge was true, Ryoga Kamishiro would have had a mixture of anger and sorrow and relief in his eyes – anger that Yuma hadn’t killed the Barians responsible for all of this, sorrow that Yuma had been put into such a position in the first place, and relief that Yuma had kept true to his word. But there was nothing but wrath there. His eyebrows were drawn together and he gritted his teeth so hard that his lips curled back. “Damn him,” Ryoga hissed. “He’s not going to be able to keep escaping it.”

Astral’s distraction gave way to worry. Where Ryoga clenched his teeth, Astral bit his lower lip. “I fear this is not… the first time Yuma has been sympathetic toward the Barians.”

“What are you talking about?” Ryoga demanded, fingernails digging into the tabletop.

Astral approached the fire and turned his back on the two men at the table. He was quiet for a moment. “When we left my kingdom, Yuma told me that he allowed General Alit to live. Then General Gilag, when you rescued us from the dungeons. And I…” He let out a frustrated breath. “I found something in Yuma’s cloak pocket. A charm necklace, with the Barian emblem on it.”

For the first time in a long time, Ryoga’s lips parted in surprise. It mirrored Kaito’s own expression.

“Yuma wouldn’t,” Ryoga said uncertainly after a moment. “After everything… he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t trust a Barian.”

“That didn’t stop him from sleeping with one,” Kaito said coolly, and Ryoga was on his feet with his hands reaching for Kaito’s neck so quickly Kaito barely had time to move out of his range.

“Don’t talk about what you don’t understand, you treacherous little bastard,” Ryoga breathed, shoving a chair out of the way.

“I don’t need to understand  _why_  it happened.” Kaito shoved Ryoga’s hands away and pulled his sword from the table. “I felt it just fine.”

Ryoga’s strangled yell of fury and Kaito’s prepared strike with his sword were cut off by a flash of light and an invisible force shoving the two men away from one another.

“I said that’s  _enough_!” Astral held his hands out, and he no longer sounded weary. He sounded angry. “We don’t have time and I don’t have the patience to watch the two of you squabble like children. Kaito, where is Yuma?”

Kaito shoved his sword back in its sheath. “I left him and the merchant down there.”

“He knows my plan.” Ryoga ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “He’s going to take it to the Barians.”

“We have no proof that Yuma is working for them,” Astral said softly, but his uncertainty had returned. “His refusal to allow the Barian generals and Lord Durbe to be killed might have simply been his forgiving nature.”

“He may not be working  _for_ them,” said a new voice from the doorway, “but he might have teamed up  _with_ one.”

The man at the doorway wore a cloak and a frown, and his hair looked as though someone had placed a bowl on his head and cut around it. His arms were crossed as he walked into the kitchen. “I heard arguing and I couldn’t help but overhear.”

“Who are you?”

“Takashi Todoroki,” Astral murmured. “He is a mage. What do you mean by _he might have teamed up with_ a Barian?”

The mage lowered himself to the seat at the end of the table. “He had a travelling companion when we met. A mage who went by the name of Rei Shingetsu.”

Ryoga closed his eyes and slammed his fist on the table. “Damn it.”

“You believe that Shingetsu was a Barian?” Kaito narrowed his eyes at the mage. “Why?”

“I have no proof,” the mage admitted, “but it would make sense. I felt in Shingetsu magic of fire and another kind of magic that he had masked, so I couldn’t tell what it was, though he informed me he was ashamed of it. From what I gathered, he led two Barian generals away from Yuma and Prince Astral and returned not only alive but unhurt.”

“And he disappeared right before we entered the ward,” Astral whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Yuma said he fell asleep and Shingetsu vanished at that time.”

Takashi nodded. “In summary, all very suspicious behavior, and might indicate that Shingetsu was, in fact, a Barian.”

“And Yuma had the crest, so he must have…” Astral all but collapsed into the nearest chair and pulled shaky hands over his mismatched eyes. “May the gods help us.”

Ryoga stood. “If you left him down there, he’ll be heading toward the abandoned military posts in Astral Kingdom to stir up our potential allies against me in order to stop my plans. We have to find him.”

Kaito looked at the paper on the table. He didn’t know what to think; on one hand, Ryoga’s plan was stupid and Kaito and Yuma both had determined that this man at the table wasn’t quite Ryoga Kamishiro. But on the other hand, the evidence that Yuma was working with the Barians – or had been duped into working with one – was substantial enough to merit further investigation.

At the same time, he longed to know who his ancestor had been. But, he thought grimly, tucking it into his pocket again as he followed Ryoga out the door, there were more pressing matters at hand than whether his own lineage was tainted by Barian sympathizers.

—-

“Check.”

Polara wasn’t on top of her game this day. She made three poor moves in a row, resulting in what would very shortly be a perfect checkmate for Koche. Her fingers hovered over a bishop; touching it would result in a loss for her. But instead of moving the piece, she pulled her hand away from the board and closed her eyes.

“Was it right to take a kingdom from him?”

He waited patiently for her to make a move. She didn’t. “You don’t usually second-guess yourself, Polara.”

“We promised him two months.” She finally picked up a knight and plopped it absently a few spaces away. It kept her from being checked again this turn. Luck, maybe, or she was less distracted than she seemed.

“We promised him two months before  _demoting_  him,” Koche reminded her, nudging a pawn forward. “Are you feeling  _sorry_  for Durbe?”

“Of course not.” Polara shoved the other bishop diagonally, taking one of Koche’s knights. “He used to be a very capable leader. Something has been keeping him from doing his duty to the best of his ability.”

There was an obvious culprit to the mystery of Durbe’s distractions, but Polara had forbidden him from levelling those accusations without proof. Instead, he took out her rook with one of his own. “Check.” He tented his hands as she rubbed her eyes. “He used to be, Polara. But lately he’s been ruling with his heart and not his mind. It’s dangerous, for us and for him.” He eyed the board as she wearily pushed her knight to the side. He slid his queen forward. “He’s dangerous because he’s unpredictable now. And we don’t know his endgame. Checkmate.”

She stared at the board for a moment longer, unseeingly. “Durbe’s hands have never spilled anyone’s blood but his own.”

Koche paused in the act of resetting the board. “He has been responsible for more deaths – human and Barian alike – than the rest of us combined.”

“But he never held the sword that did it.”

“He as good as did.” Koche furrowed his brows and sat back. “What’s this really about?”

Polara stood, resting her fingertips on the edge of the small table, as she stared past Koche to the endless desert beyond the mountains. “I think this will set a dangerous precedent, Koche. We didn’t even have the full Council assembled when we made the decision to take another lord’s power from him. We didn’t even give him a hearing.”

Yet it was the right decision, Koche was sure. Certainly, it had been unfair for only four of the seven lords – he, Vector, Alasco, and Polara – to rule on an issue of this magnitude, but Ilya and Pherka were preoccupied, and they had given Durbe a choice in which kingdom he was to give up, so it wasn’t entirely unfair. Durbe’s missteps would cost them if he continued unchecked. And Polara alone had voted in favor of allowing Durbe to remain in control of both kingdoms. Koche had only agreed to it in the first place because of Durbe’s assurance that Arclight and Tenjo were so interconnected that a Barian takeover would only work if one lord oversaw affairs in both kingdoms. He had, obviously, been incorrect. “Will you give the kingdom Durbe chooses to relinquish to Pherka or Alasco?”

“You,” Polara said quietly. She still didn’t look at him.

Next to Polara, Koche had the most seniority of the lords. Thirty-six years of it to Polara’s thirty-nine. Vector came next, then Alasco, Pherka, Ilya, and Durbe. By all reason, Alasco deserved control of one of the kingdoms. “I will pass, thank you.”

“Why?”

Because there was no control in Arclight and no reward in ruling Tenjo. And Koche had been alive this long without attracting unwanted attention to himself. Durbe had been a lord only a little over a decade and was always the first lord to be targeted for assassination attempts and first to be scrutinized when something went awry. Being in charge of an entire kingdom would upset Koche’s perfect balance. “Seems like too much work.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I see. Well, Alasco has the next most seniority, after Vector. I suppose I’ll ask him.” As she turned, Polara let a scrap of paper flutter to the chessboard, where it landed on top of a rook.

“What is this?”

“Durbe’s answer,” Polara said curtly, and left without looking back.

Koche gingerly picked up the tiny, crumpled paper and smoothed it out between two fingers. One word was written on it in a shaky hand, but the writing was unmistakably Durbe’s.

_Arclight._


	54. Gambling With Destiny

It wouldn’t take long before Ryoga suspected that Yuma wasn’t going to return to the Shrine. Kaito undoubtedly would mention that Yuma had stopped him from killing Durbe and Mizael. This Ryoga – whoever or whatever was controlling him – would take it as a personal offense, with Yuma countermanding his orders to kill the Barian lords.

But Yuma couldn’t kill them. He never wanted to kill again.

“How do you really expect to save your kingdom from the Barians if you won’t defeat the Barian lords?”

He had mixed thoughts about Anna’s presence. Sometimes she saw the holes in his reasoning that he would never have seen. At the same time, she was cynical and complained about a great deal of things. “I guess I’ll figure that out when we get to that point,” Yuma muttered.

“If you say you think you can talk them into surrender, I have some news for y-”

An arrow planted itself firmly in a tree three feet away, and Anna let out a scream that Yuma stifled with his hand. His heart pounded as he started to turn Anna back to get her to safety.

“I think it’d be best if you don’t move no more,” a woman’s drawling voice called from the trees. “That was a warning shot.”

Yuma’s eyes travelled the trees, finally coming to rest on a spot of dark red hair not too far away. It was attached to a tiny woman with hazel eyes smeared with black eye paint, a pointed nose, and entirely black clothing. Most of all, Yuma noticed the bow in her hands as she crouched on a tree branch. Another arrow was notched loosely in the string. “A kind warning would have come  _before_  the arrow,” he said casually, pulling his hand from Anna’s mouth. “Still haven’t learned to hide your hair? I’m surprised you aren’t dead yet.”

The woman snorted and slid down the tree to the ground. As she got closer, Yuma could see her walking with a stiff limp. “Why the hell ain’t  _you_  dead, Lieutenant? I heard the Barians caught you and hanged your sorry wimp ass.”

He wished people would stop saying that. He remembered it all too vividly as it was. “I had help getting away.”

“So I noticed.” The woman eyed Anna from top to bottom and lifted an eyebrow. “You got a name, sweetheart?”

“Anna,” Yuma cut in, stepping between the two women. “A merchant from Heartland.” He turned his head. “Anna, this is Reina. She’s an archer from the unit I was… going to work with.”

“Was,” Reina corrected, stepping around Yuma, closer to Anna. She extended her hand. “I  _was_  an archer in the unit.”

“Charmed,” Anna said in a voice that very much suggested otherwise. She shook Reina’s hand with a grimace. “Do you usually introduce yourself by shooting at people?”

Reina laughed. It was a low, booming laugh. “Can’t be too careful, Anna.” She turned and walked away, leg moving stiffly. “C’mon, Lieutenant. ‘Fraid most of us got killed off in Vector’s witch hunt but there are a dozen of us left.”

Yuma’s heart sank at these words. The unit had once been eighty strong, whittled to a mere dozen. “What of the other units?”

Reina shrugged as she adjusted her quiver. “Ain’t seen most of them. Some joined up with the pirates along the Revise, others…” She scrunched her nose. “Probably dead.”

She kept her voice calm. It was all Yuma could do to keep his just as calm. “I see.” There was a slight quiver in his voice. He knew most of the soldiers in the unit by sight if not by name. And now they were gone, just like all his other comrades. “What happened to your leg?”

“Eh.” Reina shrugged again and struggled over a fallen tree. Yuma helped her over it. “Some Barian son of a bitch shot me in the leg ‘bout three weeks ago on a raid.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuma murmured, reaching back for Anna, who ignored him and scrambled over the tree on her own.

“So was the Barian.” Reina laughed again. “Returned the favor, ‘cept I got him in the neck and not the leg.”

Yuma chanced another glance at Anna, who grimaced. “Sounds… unpleasant.”

“Yeah, for him, I’ll bet. I wouldn’t know. He went and joined the Barian choir invisible.”

“The what?” Anna frowned.

Reina cleared her throat. “You know. He’s an ex-Barian now.”

“How is he an ex-Barian?”

“Merciful gods above, where’d you find this girl, Lieutenant?”

“She killed him,” Yuma muttered to Anna, who threw up her hands in defeat.

“Well, she should have just  _said_  so instead of using stupid metaphors,” Anna hissed.

Reina ignored the remainder of the conversation and stopped in the middle of a small clearing. “Y’all wait here, I’ll be back in a sec. Gonna let the others know you’re here, Lieutenant.”

She hobbled off into the trees. Anna grabbed Yuma’s arm, her mouth twisted. “She’s a lunatic, Yuma. Why are we associating with people like her?”

Yuma frowned at the place where Reina disappeared into the forest. He didn’t like doing this any more than Anna did, but he had no choice. Reina was a fairly bloodthirsty woman from a tiny hunting village in the far northern reaches of the Astral Kingdom, with a mouth to match her temperament. But she was also fiercely loyal to the Astral Kingdom, and by extension, Captain Kamishiro. If the captain had gotten to Reina first, she would have followed his plan without question. The lure of launching an assault on the Astral Kingdom against Vector and the Barians would have been too tempting to pass up for her.

“Stay right here,” he said quietly, prying her fingers from his arm. “I need to… take care of something.”

Anna opened her mouth to protest but when he lifted an eyebrow meaningfully at her, she seemed to understand. “Oh. Hurry up, then. I don’t like this place much.”

Yuma hurried into a clump of trees and when he could no longer see Anna, fell to his knees and reached into the inner pocket of his cloak with one hand, while the other dug at the ground. His fingers grasped the sharp, tiny Barian crest hiding there and he pulled it gingerly from his pocket. “I’m sorry, Shingetsu,” he muttered, clawing at the dirt until he made a hole deep enough to cover the crest. He couldn’t afford for these renegade ex-soldiers to find this crest on him. They would never trust him, and probably kill him and Anna on the spot for being Barian sympathizers. He smoothed the earth over it and straightened up, letting out a quiet breath of relief. His pocket felt a thousand times lighter without the presence of the crest there.

“He just went to, uh, relieve himself,” Anna’s voice was saying as Yuma approached, pulling the captain-commander’s fang necklace from his pocket and over his head. “He should be… there, there he is.”

Reina stood there, arms crossed impatiently, with a tall man at her side. Graying stubble sprouted from his thin cheeks and his slightly unfocused eyes stared at a spot directly above Yuma’s left shoulder. When the man stepped forward with a large hand extended, Yuma caught a powerful whiff of strong drink.

“Lieutenant,” the man said in a voice that strained with the effort of trying to be polite.

“Charlie,” Yuma replied shortly, taking the proffered hand.

“How’s your sister?”

Yuma felt a flash of irritation. There was a hint of hopefulness in the man’s voice. “Married, last I heard.”

“Damn,” the man muttered, rubbing his eyes. Charlie McCay had once been a charismatic, attractive man; he was friends with Yuma’s father and tried to court Akari several years back. But time had not been kind to him – or perhaps he had not been kind to himself. His hair, which was thick and styled the last time Yuma had seen him two years ago, was now long and scraggly. Yuma couldn’t be certain, but he would have bet that the patched cloak around Charlie’s shoulders was the same cloak Yuma had last seen him in as well. “Well, it can’t be helped, I guess. You look, ah, good, Lieutenant.”

If Charlie looked worse for the wear, Yuma knew he did, too. “What are you doing here, Charlie? I thought you had gone back to Heartland after you left the Guard.”

Charlie shifted and scratched at his stubble. He avoided looking at Yuma. “I, hmm, don’t think I want to go back there. It’s not safe.”

Anna snorted loudly. “It was perfectly safe until the Barians took over, but you left before that, didn’t you?”

“Do you know him?” Reina said with mild surprise.

“Not personally, thank the gods.” Anna tugged her cloak tighter and gave Charlie a contemptuous glare. “Charlie McCay owes a lot of people a lot of money and thinks he can con his way out of it. Only reason he would be in a place like this is if the Barians wanted him for something and he was on the run. What is it, Charlie? Debts? Robbery?”

Charlie blew out a steady stream of air in frustration. “For the gods’ sakes, fine. Yes, I had a lot of debts to pay off so I… broke into a place to loot it, except I was discovered halfway through collecting the silverware and barely made it out alive. I made it this far when I accidentally stumbled into this den of savages last night and have been threatened with my life since. Happy?”

Reina prodded him in the back with a slender knife. “Why don’t you tell the lieutenant where you was when they found you.”

It must have been a house of wealth, if Charlie was rummaging through the silverware to pawn off. And there were plenty of elites in Heartland, making profits in ways both legal and extralegal. But when Yuma suggested this in a flat tone, he could see the muscles in Charlie’s jaw working.

“Astral Kingdom,” Reina supplied, digging the knife deeper. Charlie grunted.

There were remarkably few noble families in the Astral Kingdom, and from the disgusted look Reina gave the man – as though he were something she found on the bottom of her shoe – he could take an educated guess.

“You broke into the Astral Palace to steal the royal silverware,” Yuma said quietly.

“We found him wandering ‘round here last night,” Reina said. She stared up at the back of Charlie’s head with the same distaste. “We was gonna kill him straightaway for being a spineless coward and a thief to boot, but thought we might get something out of him. What do you wanna do with him, Lieutenant?”

All three of them looked at Yuma. He didn’t want to witness another death, nor did he want to live with the knowledge that his indecision cost a man his life. At the same time, there was protocol that had to be followed. The laws of the Astral Kingdom were clear when it came to thieves: first offense, the thief lost his hand. Second, his head. These laws were usually enough of a deterrent to keep people from resorting to theft. Yuma had seen men without hands. But he had never heard of someone who had been convicted of a second offense.

Then again, he had never heard of someone who had managed to make it all the way into the royal treasury before being caught, either.

“I am bound by oath to uphold the law,” Yuma said softly. He gestured for Reina to hand him her knife, which she did with a wicked grin. “Kneel here, McCay.”

“Yuma.” Charlie was pleading now as Reina shoved him to his knees in front of a tree stump. “Your father wouldn’t do this.”

“I am not my father,” Yuma replied coolly. Reina grabbed Charlie’s arm and placed it upon the stump. “My father accepted Fate.” He slammed the knife down and Anna let out a quickly muffled scream. Charlie’s face was stark under his mess of stubble, and a stream of tears fell from his wide eyes as he stared at the knife, tip-down in the tree stump next to Charlie’s still-attached hand. “I do not.”

Charlie’s mouth worked silently for a moment before his eyes darted upward. “Why?”

Yuma settled on the other side of the stump, so they were facing one another. He gestured for Reina to release the man, which she did only after three minutes of protest. Eventually, she scowled and moved away, arms crossed again.

“I remember you were once a great gambler,” Yuma said, pulling a battered iron cup from his knapsack. “Do you have dice?”

Charlie contemplated the cup for a moment. “Yes.”

“Then let’s play a game, Charlie.” Yuma held out his hand as Charlie fumbled in his pocket for the dice. “We take turns. First to roll consecutives or straights three times wins.”

He watched the man lick his lips slowly, placing the dice into Yuma’s outstretched hand. “What are the stakes?”

“If you win, you can leave in peace with your hand still attached.” Yuma scooped the dice into the cup. “But if I win, you have to help us break into the Astral Palace.”

The response to this declaration was almost exactly what he expected it would be.

“What the  _fuck_ , Lieutenant-”

“Yuma-”

Yuma held his hand up again to silence the two women. He didn’t take his eyes from Charlie’s face, which was paler than before, if that was possible, and screwed up in confusion. “And if you try to backstab us, or steal from the palace, or sell us to the Barians in any way, I will ensure personally that you will lose more than your hand. Do we have a deal?”

The only sound for almost twenty seconds was Reina’s hissed curses and the rustling of trees around them. Finally, Charlie took a deep breath and nodded.

“Good.” Yuma slid the cup over to him. “You can take the first turn.”

—-

The first time he opened his eyes, it was to a view of Durbe holding Mizael’s sword, breathing heavily. Mizael had wanted to ask what was going on, but he felt… so tired. And the Healer was there, all but shoving Durbe out of the room, so he let himself fall asleep once more.

When Mizael opened his eyes again, he saw unfamiliar canopy silks hanging above him in place of the wooden poles that adorned the beds in the Arclight infirmary. It wasn’t his bed, or Durbe’s. But Durbe was there, sitting in a stiff-backed chair a few feet away, chin resting on his chest with his eyes closed. Mizael tried to sit up, but his vision whirled around him and he slumped back on the pillows with a grunt.

This soft noise was enough to snap Durbe awake again, and he slid from his chair to the edge of the bed in one fluid motion. Mizael closed his eyes and tried to suppress the flutter in his chest and stomach as Durbe placed a shaky hand to Mizael’s cheek and kissed him.

“What happened?” Durbe whispered, straightening up.

That was a good question. Mizael wasn’t entirely sure; he remembered going into the forest, digging out the ward, and trying to figure out what to do with it. His hand had moved almost on its own, grasping his sword and slicing into his own flesh so his blood dripped onto the ward.

_A weary warrior approaches the Mountain of the Gods  
Seeking penance, offering a soul with his blood._

It seemed natural to do it. He had to offer his soul with his blood.

“Where are we?” he muttered, trying and failing to sit up again. His head felt as though it were splitting in half.

Durbe pressed him back onto the bed. “Tenjo.”

“What? Why? How?”

 “I… I…” Durbe shook his head and placed both hands on Mizael’s chest. “I need to know what happened to you first.”

“Durbe, why are we in the Tenjo Kingdom?” Mizael reached up, intending to use Durbe’s scarf as leverage to pull himself up. Instead, he pulled Durbe’s body down again, with Durbe barely managing to keep himself aloft with his elbows. “Why aren’t we in Arclight? How did we even get back to the…” He trailed off as Durbe looked away, flinching. There was only one way to get from the remnants of the Dragoon Village all the way south to Tenjo so quickly, and Mizael had not done it of his own accord. “Oh my God, Durbe. You didn’t.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” Durbe’s voice was uncharacteristically small. “Kaito was there, and Lieutenant Tsukumo.”

“ _What_?”

“Please, just… let me explain-”

“You- you  _idiot_!” Mizael ignored the blinking lights in his vision and took a blind swing at Durbe’s face. He missed, and hit what felt like Durbe’s shoulder instead. “You irresponsible… little…” He couldn’t think of a word strong enough, so he slammed his fist into Durbe’s stomach. Durbe made a small noise, but continued to sit there without fighting back. “You are a fucking  _idiot_!”

“You’ve established that already,” Durbe said weakly, and Mizael let himself fall back onto his pillows, biting back a wordless scream while his heart pumped blood furiously. “I need to know why you were unconscious in the first place.”

“I don’t remem-”

But no, he  _did_. Maybe. It was a blur, almost like a dream. It might have been a dream. It  _must_ have been a dream.

It  _had_ to be just a dream, because the disembodied voice told him that the Seven Emperors had to be no more before the Dragon could wake.

_The blood-red city burns, the Dragon striking down the Kings._

Did that mean  _all_  of them? Did that mean that, for the Dragon to wake and for Mizael to save his kingdom, Durbe… had to die?

“Mizael?”

No, that was preposterous. It was just a dream, he told himself firmly. A very long, very painful dream, despite the fact that he could remember very little of it outside of it a feeling of suffocation and balls of multicolored fire in blue and red and yellow and white all around him, blazing with an intensity that blinded him and blistered his skin. But then, maybe that was enough.

He reached up and fumbled for Durbe’s wrist. “Kaito.”

“What?”

Mizael pulled Durbe closer. “I have to kill Kaito.”

“Are you sure?” Durbe sounded anxious.

“Yes. He has… the other…” His head was spinning. He couldn’t even focus his eyes on Durbe’s face. But it was important for Durbe to know. “Twin soul. He has the other… Dragoon blade.”

_It’s so hot._

“Mizael, you’re burning up. I’ll go get-”

“Durbe.” Breathing was agonizing, like he was drawing breath through a rolled-up scrap of paper. But he didn’t loosen his grip on Durbe’s hand. “Why are we… in Tenjo?”

He let his eyes close and his hand fall as Durbe whispered an answer, one that seemed… impossible. After everything they had done…

_We lost Arclight. They gave it to Alasco._

He swallowed the lump rising in his throat. He hated how weak his human body was, how much emotion it betrayed. “Durbe,” he whispered. “We don’t have much time left.”

The fingers on Durbe’s free hand brushed the hair from Mizael’s face. “You need to recover.” Mizael was startled at how close Durbe’s lips were to his ear. “Oh God, Mizael, I have so much to tell you. But I need you at your best.”

“When I wake… will you finally tell me how you destroyed the ward to enter the Dragoon Village?”

The hesitation was too long.

“Soon,” was all Durbe said before he kissed Mizael’s forehead and straightened up. “Please recover quickly.” The door closed softly as Durbe closed and locked the door behind him.

Mizael didn’t cry. It was a sign of weakness, and one that he refused to show. But it hurt. It hurt so much, that he had given Durbe his whole heart and soul and Durbe still refused to reciprocate. 


	55. Perfect Halves

Games of chance were impossible to control. Nothing could have been riskier than betting the success of the entire mission on a few lucky rolls of the dice. In some ways, Yuma believed this to be the true test of his defiance of Fate. If he was really to be the gods’ puppet, he would lose. How far were they willing to go to chart the course of his destiny?

Four rolls passed with no straights or consecutives on either side, and Yuma’s knees began to cramp. Charlie took the cup again and tossed the four dice on the stump.

“Two, three, four, five,” he murmured with a relieved smile, pointing at each dice in turn. “Consecutive numbers. One for me, then, Lieutenant.”

Yuma scooped the dice back into the cup. “One of three.” He shook it and dumped them on the stump. His lips twitched. “Straight fives. Looks like we’re tied now, Charlie.”

The gambler’s mouth pressed into a straight line. “How much do you know about probability, Lieutenant?”

“I’m lousy with numbers. That’s why I became a soldier.”

Charlie laughed quietly, scooping his next failed toss into the cup before sliding it back at Yuma. “I’m sure that was the reason exactly. See, the dice… they don’t care about how rich or poor or happy or desperate a person is. The odds are always the same, no matter who you are or what your circumstances might be.”

 _One, six, four, two._ Yuma slid the cup back. “Do you believe that the gods have a plan for you?”

“You mean, like Fate?” Charlie snorted. “That’s only for people who aren’t bold enough to take a chance in life. They hide behind this façade of predestination to excuse their failures.  _I was destined to fail at this task_. You hear it all the time. Only when you take responsibility for your own actions do you really know what it’s like to… win.”

Yuma stared at the straight twos on the stump. One more… was all it would take for Charlie to win. He felt a twinge of anxiety.

“Would you look at that.” Charlie smiled. “Maybe you shouldn’t have let me go first. You have two throws to make while I have just one.”

Yuma lifted the cup. “Three, four, five, six. Looks like the odds are in my favor right now.”

They rolled. Six times. Seven. Eight.

“If I roll it first, I win,” Charlie muttered. Yuma could see beads of sweat on the gambler’s forehead as he slammed the cup down.

_Two, two, two, five._

“Damn it,” he breathed, passing it over again.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t believe in Fate either,” Yuma said, lifting the cup. He stared at the dice for a moment before giving a short laugh. This was it, then. The start of his new destiny. The destiny he was going to create for himself.

Charlie glared at the stump and grimaced. Straight ones. “Don Thousand’s Eye.”

“Oh? You don’t believe in Fate but you believe in that superstition?” Yuma slid the dice back to Charlie and returned the cup to his knapsack.

Charlie continued to stare at them as though they were cursed. “The dice never lie, Lieutenant. Nothing good can come out of associating with you.”

Yuma pushed himself to his feet. His knees were cramped and one of his feet was numb. “A deal’s a deal, Charlie. You will assist us, and in return, I will let you keep your hand and your life.”

* * *

 

A tiny ball of red light glowed from the palm of Durbe’s hand, affording the only light down the long, pitch-black tunnel. He wished it didn’t have to come to this, but since Alasco had control of Arclight now, Durbe had to act quickly and hide Haruto somewhere away from the palace. It was still far too close, but that couldn’t be helped. Moving Haruto once had been hard enough. Moving him away from Arclight would have been near impossible if not for the tunnel from the dungeons that led a few miles away from the palace. It was the tunnel that Yuma Tsukumo and Prince Astral had used to escape him; how ironic it was that he was now using it as his own means of escape. If Alasco knew he was in Arclight at that moment, it would cause too much trouble. Durbe had given up the rights to this kingdom. He had no business being here, and it was too dangerous to create a portal in the open where Alasco might have his people watching for them; at any rate, they left behind a trace of his energy in the air that would make him so easy to identify as the creator should any Barians come snooping around this hillside looking for evidence of portal usage. As far as Durbe knew, Alasco didn’t know this tunnel existed, and it was as safe a place as any to use as a staging ground for his portals. As a precautionary measure, Durbe carefully caved in part of the tunnel. Anything he could do to slow Alasco down was better than nothing.

He emerged into the dim sunlight; there seemed to be a mid-afternoon storm moving in, and the sky darkened. Regardless, the contrast from the red light to the white light caused him to flinch, and he shaded his eyes as he moved along the edge of the forest, toward the small cave he kept Haruto in.

Though nearing adulthood, Haruto was still very small; he spoke as a child would in normal conversation, but Durbe had heard enough from the boy under less usual circumstances to know how powerful he was, and how he seemed to know things no one else knew. Sometimes Haruto demanded to know where his brother was. Other times, he remained eerily silent, staring at the wall in front of him, unblinking. And on rare occasions, he would scream and rage, the chains of Baria crystal the only thing holding him back from blowing up half the hillside.

Durbe set the basket he carried on the ground next to Haruto. He’d tried so hard to make Haruto comfortable there, with thick blankets and a stack of children’s books, but it was still painfully uncomfortable with the chains sapping his energy, and lonely; Durbe was all too aware of how close they still were to the palace, and how easy it would be for someone to accidentally stumble across the boy. But they didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“Good afternoon, Haruto,” he murmured. “I brought you some food. And some caramel, I understand you like it-”

“I want my brother.”

It could have been worse. “We don’t know where your brother is.”

Haruto pulled his knees to his chest and rested his forehead on them. “I feel it.”

Durbe shifted a few books aside so he could sit next to the boy. He was in his human form, hoping it would alleviate some of Haruto’s discomfort, but Haruto still didn’t look at him. “Feel what?”

“The Dragon.” Haruto’s shoulders shook. “It’s going to destroy everything. Everything, burning to the ground, people dying and screaming and- oh, the _screaming-_ ”

“Do the gods talk to you, Haruto?” Durbe pressed.

“I feel the fire burning and the people screaming, they’re screaming, screaming,  _screaming_!”

With each word, Haruto’s voice became louder and higher, and Durbe grabbed him by the shoulders to quiet him. “Haruto-”

The boy’s wide golden eyes looked up at Durbe. They were not full of the terror that his voice was. They were full of a bizarre sense of wonder, intrigue. In many ways, this was so much worse. “I’m screaming, too,” he said in a barely audible, yet completely emotionless voice. “The Dragon is going to burn me. Burn me right up as I  _scream_.”

The legend – or prophecy, or whatever it was – talked of the power of Origin, the power of the gods, being the key to unlocking the power of the Dragon. In Astralite religion, the power of Origin was a gift from the gods, given to humans – a direct access to godly power, channeled through the user’s willpower and soul, a different and more direct link to the power than the Barian soul gems provided to the powers of the Barian World. And, unlike the Barians, very few humans possessed it. The Dragoons, the Astralite royal family… and this boy. He still didn’t understand why Haruto had this power, but he did, and he would be the key to unlocking the power of the Dragon.

Haruto returned to gazing blankly at the basket Durbe had brought, unmoving. It was clear that Durbe would get nothing from the boy now, and he stood to leave.

_The Dragon is going to burn me right up._

To unlock the Dragon, both Haruto and Kaito Tenjo had to die.

* * *

 

When she was a child, before Yuma was born, Akari would occasionally have bad dreams. The Barians were the things of nightmares; though she had never seen one, she heard and read about humans who had encountered these mouthless creatures and brought back tales of the Barians’ savagery. Her father would tuck her back into bed when she woke crying, ruffle her hair, and reassure her that she had nothing to worry about.

“The Barians can’t hurt you, Akari,” he would say before kissing her on the forehead, and as he was leaving the room, he would give her a grin and remind her to  _kattobing_. But he would leave the candle lit for her, just in case.

In retrospect, these were empty words from a man who had trusted a Barian only to be killed by him.

She hadn’t wanted to travel by river again – ever – but Chris convinced her that they would be safer going from the port to Arclight by ship rather than overland. He was still weak from where she had stabbed him. She felt kind of bad for that, but reminded herself that it was his damn fault to begin with and that he probably deserved it.

The ride was mercifully uneventful, and when they arrived back home – back at  _Chris’s_  home, Akari reminded herself – they fully expected to give Lord Durbe a report of Alasco’s suspicious behavior regarding the pirate attack. He would, in turn, take it to the other lords, and they could try to get the others to accuse Alasco of hiring the pirates to kill the royal family. It was a good plan, Akari conceded, and might have even worked – if only Durbe had been the lord waiting for them upon their return.

There he sat in his Barian form, swirling an empty wine glass idly with one clawed hand (presumably to complete his evil mastermind aesthetic, Akari noted), a book in his other: the source of Akari’s most recent nightmares. They were much the same as they had been when she was a child, except now the featureless faces of the Barians in her dreams had been replaced by Alasco. And she no longer had a father to tell her it was all right, because this Barian had murdered him.

His eyes flickered to the door where Akari and Chris stood rigidly, and gestured at the seats across the fireplace from him. “Ah, good to see you, Lord Arclight. Lady Arclight. Have a seat.”

“What the  _hell_  are you doing here?” Akari hissed. “Where is Lord Durbe?”

Alasco’s eyes scrunched up in a disapproving frown as he closed the book and set down the glass. “Lord Durbe has been… replaced.”

“Replaced,” Chris repeated. “That’s convenient. Did you kill him?”

The lord’s eyes widened in surprise before he burst out in laughter. “Kill him? My God, Lord Christopher, what a dreadful accusation. I would never kill a lord. No, no.” He chuckled. “Lord Durbe is still very much alive, I assure you. He’s in Tenjo at present.”

“Our ship was boarded by pirates,” Chris said icily. “Another convenience, then, that you happened to decide at the last minute not to take it back to Arclight?”

Alasco set down the glass and tilted his head. He looked genuinely puzzled. “ _Pirates_? What did-” He paused. “Ah-ah-ah. I see. You think  _I_  had something to do with it.”

“It’s interesting, how you took Lord Durbe’s spot here in my kingdom at the same time my wife and I were being threatened with death by a band of river pirates.”

“I don’t appreciate your accusations, Lord Christopher.”

“And I didn’t appreciate you murdering my father, either.” Akari lifted her chin. “As a matter of fact, I don’t appreciate a lot of things you’ve done,  _my lord_.”

She didn’t move, didn’t flinch as Alasco stood. He tossed the book on the chair without taking his eyes from her. “Durbe has made many mistakes, but I see that one of his greatest was allowing a Tsukumo to live,” he murmured, stepping closer. She resisted the urge to step away. She wasn’t going to give this demon an inch. “All the same, you are, from your naïve mother to your worthless father to your foolish brother. And you will meet the same f-”

She punched him.

It was more of an instinctual reaction than anything, a flash of anger that she couldn’t keep under control, but by the  _gods_  did it feel nice.

Behind her, Chris muttered an oath, and just as a stunned Alasco regained his composure and reached for a knife at his belt, Chris held a sword to Alasco’s throat. Still surprised at what she had done, Akari allowed Chris to pull her behind him while Alasco placed a hand under his bleeding nose. She became aware of a dull throbbing in the hand she had used to deliver the blow.

“Step aside, Christopher,” Alasco hissed, reaching out to push the sword away. “I’m going to kill the little bitch just like I killed her father-”

“You will not touch her,” Chris said calmly, holding his sword arm surprisingly steady. “You will not touch me, or my brothers. You will not harm anyone in this palace. I don’t care that you’re a Barian emperor. If you touch  _anyone_  I care about, I will kill you, Alasco.”

He turned his back on the lord and nudged Akari to the door. Before Chris slammed it shut behind them, Akari glimpsed Alasco scowling after them, nose dripping with blood.

“I can’t believe you did that.” Chris led her to the stairwell heading to the living quarters, a slight limp in his step. “You just struck a Barian lord.”

As if he had any right to chastise  _her_. “You threatened to  _kill_  one,” she argued, shrugging him off. She stopped halfway up the stairs and grimaced. “Gods, it hurt, though. It was like punching a boulder.”

“Let me see.”

She let Chris examine her hand. When he started poking at her knuckles, she hissed at the pain jolting through her frail hand bones and drew it back.

“Bruising,” he muttered. “Didn’t break, though.”

“Oh, well thank the  _gods_ it’s not broken,” she said sarcastically, rubbing tenderly at her bruised knuckle. “What are we going to do now, Chris? I’m not living under the same roof as that hellspawn.”

“We don’t have a lot of choice in the matter.” Chris let out a slow breath. “He said that Durbe is in Tenjo, right?”

“Yeah, I think so. Why?”

Chris gazed at the banister for a long moment. “Haruto.”

“Who?”

“Kaito’s brother.” Chris squeezed his eyes shut and retreated past her, back down the stairs. “Durbe and Mizael wanted Haruto, that’s why they wanted the Tenjo Kingdom. Haruto and… and Kaito aren’t safe. I need to warn-”

She grabbed his arm. “You need to lie down is what you need. You can barely walk straight.”

“Akari, you don’t understand.” He looked up. “If Durbe and Mizael get a hold of Haruto, it’s all over. I need to get Haruto away from them before it’s too late. And I need to warn Kaito.”

The deep concern in his eyes was all too familiar. He loved Kaito – even now, despite his efforts to hide it – and, she supposed, he cared deeply for Haruto Tenjo, just as he did for his own brothers.

She let him go. “Chris.”

“What?”

She reached into a pocket of her travel cloak and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “The original got soaked beyond recognition when I had to save you from drowning, but… I do have a good memory, and we did have a lot of time on the ship back from Heartland.”

He looked at the scrawled notes on the paper and gave a short laugh. “I’d almost forgotten.”

“Be careful.” She started back up the staircase.

“Will you be all right here with him?”

“If I can put up with you, I can handle myself against a dick like Alasco,” she said without turning around. Gods, she was tired. Sleeping in her own bed would be a treat after all the things she had been subjected to in the past few days. Or weeks. Or months.

She heard him laugh quietly again, and when she glanced back, he was gone.

* * *

 

“What did he want?” Mizael leaned against the wall by the window, arms folded.

Durbe shut the door behind him and rested his forehead on it. Lord Faker had been frantic, furious, terrified. Not that Durbe could blame him. Nor could he blame Christoper Arclight for the choice vulgarities he had hurled at Durbe for refusing to tell him where Kaito and Haruto were, though Durbe supposed it was better than being targeted with another chair. He could hide the pain from the words by now. He was used to being called a monster. “He wanted to know where Haruto and Kaito were.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth.”

“Which is?”

Durbe shrugged off his outer robes and tossed them over the empty chair by Mizael’s window. “Not in Tenjo.”

There was a loud thud as Mizael slammed the window shut and pulled the curtains closed. Durbe didn’t move, even as Mizael grabbed him by the collar and shook him. “I’m so fucking  _sick_  of your secrets, Durbe.”

Durbe swallowed, but kept his face impassive. He hoped. “It’s not really important where they are.”

He stumbled backward as Mizael released him jerkily. “Not important. It’s never important to tell me things I deserve to know.” He paced a few stiff steps before wheeling on the bed, sword flashing. In a few short strokes, he had shredded the blue silk canopy hangings and buried the sword tip in the wooden post. He left it there and went to work shoving a stack of books that he had been researching onto the floor. “Do this for me, Mizael, but I can’t tell you why. Do that. Do everything, but don’t worry yourself with the details. It’s not important.”

“Mizael-”

_“What the fuck more do you want from me?”_

“I want you to calm down, first of all.”

Mizael laughed wildly and kicked over the chair. Durbe’s robes fell to the floor in a wrinkled heap. “How the  _fuck_ would you feel if the only person on the fucking planet who could look you in the face without flinching lied through his fucking teeth to your face for  _thirty years_?”

He rarely swore this much, and it was even rarer that it was accompanied by him screaming and throwing things around. Before too long, someone in the palace would either hear them fighting and come to investigate, or at the very least tell someone they had been fighting. “I wouldn’t-”

“Don’t you dare tell me you that you wouldn’t lie to me. You lied to me about your motives for the Empire for decades, you  _still_  refuse to tell me how you managed to get into the Dragoon Village. It’s funny; you said you were thankful to have me by your side – was that a lie, too?”

“I told you the truth about my motives, Mizael, and somehow…”  _Somehow Vector found out, not long after._

“Somehow  _what_ , Durbe? Somehow you don’t think it prudent to tell me how you infiltrated the Dragoon Village?”

“I can’t tell you how I managed that,” Durbe whispered.

Mizael closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said in a flat tone, “you _can’t_?”

“It’s the only secret I still have that is my own,” Durbe whispered. “Vector knows everything else and I can’t-” He cut off mid-sentence and turned to the door, but Mizael was faster. In two long strides, he blocked the door with his body and crossed his arms. Durbe couldn’t bring himself to look into Mizael’s betrayed face and settled with staring at the frayed rug.

“You  _think_ ,” Mizael said in a deadly quiet voice, “that I would betray you to _Vector_?”

Coming from Mizael, the words sounded preposterous. There was nothing less likely than Mizael playing both sides of the board… except Vector somehow knowing everything Durbe had ever told Mizael.  _Everything,_ and God, it couldn’t be a coincidence. But… it  _had_  to be a coincidence.

 _Next you’re going to insist that_ Mizael would never do that to me _despite the evidence to the contrary. You place far too many eggs in one basket… What if that basket ended up on someone else’s arm?_

Mizael wouldn’t betray him, would he?

“If you are,” Durbe replied shakily, “just say so.”

Mizael’s fingers slid along the door and locked it, never taking his eyes from Durbe. He took a few slow steps closer, unlacing his leather vest. With each step closer Mizael took, Durbe took one back until he bumped into Mizael’s wardrobe.

“Thirty years,” Mizael whispered, letting his vest fall to the floor. “Thirty years of lying and killing and scheming with you and you  _continue_  to doubt whether I am, and have always been, entirely devoted to you. Thirty years” – he pulled off his undershirt and Durbe couldn’t help but let his eyes linger on the golden helix on his chest holding his soul gem and the burn on his shoulder, until he managed to look Mizael in the eyes – “and all this pain for _you_ , Durbe – physical, emotional,  _all_ of it – all my heart and all my soul and the only reward I get is more lies, more secrets from you.”

 The quiet, trembling words, full of hurt and betrayal, stung deeper in Durbe’s heart than if Mizael had raised his voice or hit Durbe again. Durbe  _wanted_  Mizael to strike him, to yell, because it would have been less painful than hearing Mizael’s voice break and eyes fill with tears that Durbe had never before seen Mizael shed.

“Let me demonstrate the depth of my loyalty to you,” Mizael breathed, and before Durbe could say anything, Mizael grabbed Durbe’s wrist and wrapped his fingers around Durbe’s soul gem. The shock of Mizael’s emotions flowing through the gem paralyzed him; all the emotions Durbe expected were there in full force – pain, betrayal, sorrow, anger, desperation – but one stood out from the rest of them, and as Mizael’s life energy flowed into the gem, Durbe whimpered Mizael’s name.

Mizael silenced him, placing his lips firmly over Durbe’s. Durbe found his back pressed up against the wardrobe and his hands pinned to his side by Mizael’s grip; his lungs burned for air but Mizael kept his lips pressed to Durbe’s, his watery blue eyes half-open, and the only air Durbe managed to draw was the breath that Mizael expelled into his mouth and the sharp intakes he managed through his nose.

He wanted this. He longed to feel Mizael’s energy course through him like a new flash of life, longed for the too-human sensations of pleasure in his chest and stomach that took away his stress and anxiety and made him feel  _alive_.

He  _didn’t_  want this. He didn’t  _want_  to feel Mizael’s grip getting weaker with each passing second as his life drained into Durbe, and he hated the fact that he  _wanted_  to feel like a human, that he  _needed_  to feel human to feel alive.

He managed to break the kiss and breathed heavily, biting back a moan when Mizael’s body pressed to his. There was a strange, uncomfortable burning coursing through his body now alongside the sweet flow of energy through his gem, and Durbe knew that this was his desire for his general. He fought down the primal part of him that wanted this to continue.  _I don’t want this,_ he tried to tell himself, _I’m a Barian, we’re Barians, we’re not humans, Barians don’t_ feel _this way…_

But he was a Barian who burned for Mizael, and Mizael was a Barian who burned for him. So few Barians ever had these feelings for another, these physical desires, these emotional needs combining into one raging torrent that crashed through Mizael’s soul gem into Durbe’s, and he and Mizael were hardly average Barians, the depth of their relationship hardly common. 

“Mizael,” Durbe managed to choke out, leaning his head against the wardrobe door, “please… stop.”

“Do you feel it, Durbe?” Mizael whispered into his ear. “Do you feel what I feel for you? Do you understand now how much it hurts for you to accuse me of disloyalty?”

Durbe bit his lip to keep from whimpering again. It wasn’t just energy Mizael was transferring into Durbe through the soul gem – it was his life. Mizael was literally killing himself to give Durbe more time to live. And Durbe had no right to it, not when Mizael had already given his entire life over to Durbe.

“This is what I feel, Durbe. Every goddamn time I see you sap yourself dry, I feel the same helplessness. The same anger. And I hate it, I resent you for it.” His hand finally released Durbe’s lapis, and with it, the current of energy stopped abruptly. Even with the new life energy flowing through Durbe’s body, he couldn’t even muster up the strength to stay on his feet. He slumped down the front of the wardrobe to the floor, and Mizael looked down at him contemptuously before turning for the door.

“Mizael, wait.”

“It’s too late to say you’re sorry.”

“It’s not that.”

“Make it quick. Don’t you have other schemes to concoct?”

Durbe squeezed his eyes shut at these words. “Mizael, I… how long?”

Mizael’s fingers fiddled with the lock but turned his gaze back to Durbe. “I don’t know. A long time. Fifteen years. More. At first, I thought…” He trailed off and looked away again. “It was more than that, though. It was always more than that.”

Fifteen years, and Mizael had kept these feelings a secret. Durbe had never known, hadn’t even suspected until recent months, how deep their relationship had truly reached. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Mizael barked out a laugh. “Why didn’t I  _say_  something? What the hell was I supposed to say, Durbe? I’m a general. You’re a lord. If the wrong person had found out, I would have been executed immediately and you demoted.” He half-shrugged with his good shoulder. “You were better off not knowing.”

“Better off not knowing that you were in love with me?”

“Only humans feel  _love_ , Durbe.”

“Is that so wrong?”

“No matter how much you wish otherwise, we’re not  _humans_!”

Mizael’s hands were on Durbe’s scarf again, pulling him to his feet, and Durbe felt the momentary panic of his air supply being cut off again as it tightened around his neck. Just as quickly, the tightness around his throat was replaced by a constriction in his stomach and dull pain in his back when Mizael shoved Durbe against the wardrobe once more; only this time, Mizael’s hands were not limited to holding down Durbe’s wrists. It was so different, Durbe thought numbly, unable to hold back a whine while Mizael’s hands steadily worked at unlacing Durbe’s shirt. It was so unlike his general to be forceful, to be aggressive, to take control like this; Mizael had always been gentle during the rare, intimate moments they shared in the past. But Durbe couldn’t move, even as his shirt fell to the floor in a heap and Mizael’s hands slid along the curve of his bare waist.

“This is love to them.” Though Mizael’s breath was warm on Durbe’s neck, it made him shiver. “Like filthy animals, losing control over their senses. They don’t have anything more to give than their dignity. So that’s what I offer you, Durbe. My heart, my soul, and my body. That’s all I have left to give to you.”

As he pressed himself closer, Durbe grabbed a handful of Mizael’s hair and pulled him away. His heart pounded, his palms slick with sweat. “No.”

“Goddamn it, Durbe,” Mizael hissed, wincing at Durbe’s hold. “I just want you to feel what I’ve kept in my heart all these years, this longing for a purpose I never had before you.”

Durbe slowly relinquished his hold and moved his hand to the branding on Mizael’s face. A vivid red color, to symbolize the fact that he was different, unwanted, an incomplete monster, and more than just to Barians, but to humans as well. It wasn’t fair, but then, nothing was in this life. “Not like this, Mizael.” He looked up, and his heart broke at the sight of the tears slipping from Mizael’s eyes. And yet, despite everything, he was… beautiful. “I’ve never wanted it like this.”

“But you want it.”

“You sound desperate.”

Mizael bowed his head. His hair fell over his face. “All I’ve ever wanted is to feel complete. To stop feeling like the monster they branded me as." He touched the marks with a shaking hand. “I’ve thought, for thirty years of devotion… maybe you would recognize my heart’s only desire.” He laughed bitterly. “It was selfish. Even when the others would mock us during our training all those years ago, when they asked when we were going to... to bind our souls and they laughed and spat in our faces, I never let myself hope too much that their jests would become reality… until you knelt next to that bath and touched me.” His voice trembled. “No one had ever looked at me that way before.”

Durbe pushed Mizael’s hair back and tilted his chin until Mizael straightened up. No one had ever looked at Durbe the way Mizael had, either. He wanted to see that look again, here, now, because he knew this was the night their souls would become one. There would be no more delays, no more excuses. He wondered if the expression on his face mirrored the anxious anticipation raging through his body. His heart hammered against his chest so forcefully that Durbe was sure Mizael could hear it.

“My feelings for you are not a reward for your loyalty to me, Mizael,” he whispered, keeping his eyes on Mizael’s. “They are genuine. And humans show love in different ways, but Mizael…" He shook his head. "Not this way. I _do_ want this, yes, with all my soul. But not like this.”

Mizael’s breathing was labored as he tightened his grip on Durbe’s waist. “How?”

“Gently. The way it’s always been between us.”

“Durbe…”

“I know. There’s something missing.”

Mizael swallowed and stared down at Durbe’s bare torso. His hands were still resting on either side of Durbe’s hips and Durbe let himself place his own hands over them. “Durbe, when… when _can_ we be complete… in one another?”

Durbe thought of Polara and Vector and Alasco and the others, and how he had already lost Arclight. He thought of how they had reached the climax of this tragedy, waiting for the idealistic lord and his faithful general to fail or succeed. He thought of Haruto Tenjo, and the fact either Kaito or Mizael had to die alongside the boy in order to summon the power needed to save their kingdom.

He thought of the very real possibility that, before this was all over, he might lose Mizael, and in so doing, how he would lose himself and the purpose for which he had been fighting all this time.

He thought, not for the first time, not for the last, how their relationship would be if they were not lord and general. He wondered if they would have any relationship at all, or if some cruel author of their destinies had brought them together only to rip them apart at the end of their time in the story.

“Right now,” he whispered, letting Mizael pull him onto the bed, into the sheets and pillows and warmth, pressing his gem to Mizael’s and allowing himself, at long last, to share his soul with his dearest friend.


	56. Boat on the River

Here, where no manmade light touched the dry air and where the moon prepared to be reborn from its blackness, the stars flickered like candles in different shades of red, yellow, white, and blue. The valley was empty of all life except the spindly trees and ten species of cacti; the valley was empty of sound. Not the buzz of the desert wasp, or the steady  _tch-tch-tch_ of the rattlesnake’s tail, nor the howls of coyotes and wolves from the monstrous buttes towering over the upper desert landscape making their nightly rounds through the cold desert air.

No sound, no motion disrupted the mirror-like surface of the river that shouldn’t have been there at all.

There was one tiny boat sitting empty on the motionless water, waiting for someone to climb in and give it direction. The river would lead, eventually, to a town. So he climbed in, and the boat set off steadily on its own. Doubts and anxieties washed away as the little boat made its way upstream, gliding along smoothly despite the water’s motionlessness and the lack of wind. He stared straight ahead, tranquility filling his soul, and he knew that the answers he sought would rest at the end of this journey.

_The River of the Gods runs deep in Sargasso._

It was a shallow river; he was sure that, should he stick his arm into it, he would touch the bottom before his elbow was submerged. But he didn’t touch the surface, because when he finally looked down at it, all he saw was a swirling blue mass.

He watched, transfixed, as the swirls formed into shapes – shapes of unfamiliar people’s faces, of mountains and rivers and forests – and an almost silent whisper carried through the motionless air.

_Kaito Tenjo._

With an effort, he pulled his gaze from the water and looked up at the Dragon.

It had no real form; it looked vaguely reptilian, like a lizard or maybe a snake with arms, but it was unsubstantial, with its body held together with the same blue mass swirling in the river beneath him. The boat was no longer moving. It stopped without rocking, as though it were on land. Then again, this might not even qualify as a body of water.

“Why is all of this happening?” His voice was calm. In his dreams, at least, he could control his fears. “Why my brother, why me?”

The Dragon regarded him for a moment with its misty eyes, the tiny fires within them resembling the stars in the heavens above.  _Why do you seek my power, Kaito Tenjo?_

“To save my brother,” Kaito said without pausing to think about it. “To save my kingdom. To defeat the Barians.”

 _To save those you love,_  the Dragon said slowly,  _and to destroy those who have threatened you_. It laughed.

Kaito failed to find anything humorous in the situation, and he opened his mouth to tell the Dragon so. It seemed almost stupid to snap at an omniscient being capable of destroying the entire planet, but, perhaps fortunately, the Dragon spoke before Kaito did.

 _It is amusing to me,_ it said, voice void of any mirth,  _that you wish for my power for the same reasons as the other._

“The other?”

_The proud Barian general. The one you must kill before my power is yours._

The proud Barian general. So Mizael  _was_  seeking the same power. But it was odd; who was Mizael desperate to save? What threat was being posed to  _his_ kingdom? He was the one, after all, who was slicing through kingdom after kingdom in the name of the Barian Empire.

 _You don’t know the hearts of others_ , the Dragon said.  _Not like I do. And you fail, Kaito Tenjo, at realizing that Barians are just as capable of love and loss as you are._

He had been too enraged at the time to see it, but… Durbe had not left his general’s side when Kaito threatened to kill them. He had almost  _accepted_ their death, wishing only to die with his general.

And it suddenly made sense.

_The other has already fulfilled his part of your Destiny. It is your turn, Kaito Tenjo. When you have found the River of the Gods, the way to the Garden will be opened to you._

“What does it mean?” Kaito looked at the river beneath him. “’The River of the Gods runs deep in Sargasso.’ There is no river in Sargasso. So what does it mean? Where is the River of the Gods?”

 _It is not a river of water, but of souls._  The Dragon sounded amused again.  _A place where, once, humans and Barians tried to live in harmony._

Kaito’s eyes drifted to the towering buttes, the cacti, and the most perfect night sky he had ever seen. It was familiar, but—

When he turned his gaze back to the Dragon, it was gone, and Kaito was no longer in the desert. He was deep in a forest, with half a dozen sleeping forms huddled under thin blankets, close to the dying fire. As he looked at them, he felt exhausted, sick to his stomach, and even frightened.

_The one you must kill._

He had never taken a life. He had  _wanted_ to, for what Mizael had done to him and his loved ones and his kingdom. And maybe, if Yuma hadn’t stopped him, he would have. But in a final battle, between him and Mizael, would he be able to face his enemy and kill him? Even to protect what he loved?

He cursed his shaking hand as he reached into his pack for a pen and a scrap of paper. Sargasso. The village in Sargasso was the place he needed to go. A place where Barians and humans… lived in harmony. That was, of course, impossible; Kaito wondered how much of a laugh the gods were having at his expense over this entire situation. But as he finished the note he was writing to Prince Astral – not to this imposter Ryoga – there was a slight tingle in the air, something he barely sensed but knew and recognized.

Ryoga’s lance was in his hands as he stormed toward the place where the power emanated, but Kaito grabbed the captain by the back of his collar and pulled him back just in time for a man to walk from a portal a mere ten yards away from the camp, hands held out peaceably.

By now, the captain’s commotion had stirred the rest of the camp, and they muttered and grumbled at him about  _what time it is_  and  _it’s probably just a deer._ But Kaito’s grip on Ryoga’s shirt relaxed as he stared in wonder and anger and disquiet at Christopher Arclight.

—-

For years, Mizael had listened to other Barians mock him, taunt him, tarnish the nature of his friendship with Durbe. The accusations had been painful, though he masked his anguish with anger, and he acted out accordingly. More than once, it had earned him a lashing and two weeks of digging latrines.

 _Not even a soul transfer could make you_   _less of a freak._

_You will always be unwanted._

_You will always be an abomination, an incomplete creation._

_You will never find wholeness._

But they had been wrong.

Durbe looked peaceful, like a child, when he slept without nightmares. There was a soft smile playing around his lips, his head resting in the crook of Mizael’s neck, an arm crossed gently over Mizael’s chest. His fingers grazed Mizael’s soul gem just enough for his feelings to be carried through it. Contentment. Wonder.

And it was perfect.

He had never heard of Barians who completed the soul transfer in their human forms. But there had been something exhilarating in the action, something exhilarating in the way their bodies  _fit._ And there was something exhilarating in the fact that, for the first time in many years, the tears Durbe shed as they explored what it was to be  _human_  – simultaneously coming to the true realization of what it meant to be a Barian – were tears of joy, of relief, rather than sorrow and despair.

“Mizael.” Durbe shifted, his bare leg sliding along Mizael’s. It sent shivers through Mizael’s body. “How are you feeling?”

There were no words to describe it. There had been a weight on his heart for his entire life, a weight of shame and loneliness and the knowledge that he could never find a soulmate. But Durbe changed that. He overlooked Mizael’s imperfections, trusted him, extended the hand of friendship. Now Mizael knew everything about Durbe, and Durbe knew everything about him. He could literally feel Durbe’s emotions, like a tiny conscience, ever present in the back of his mind. There was contentment, but now that Durbe was awake, there was also a hint of guilt and anxiety.

And he knew why Durbe felt ashamed. After all, Mizael was now aware of his greatest secret. Durbe had spilled his conflictions into Mizael’s soul. The burden of the secret had been too much for Durbe to repress any longer.

“I don’t hate you for it,” he murmured, pulling Durbe closer. “After… after everything, I only wish you had cared enough for what we had together to tell me from the start.”

Durbe didn’t need for Mizael to articulate what he was talking about. They both knew. “Why have you trusted me so deeply for all these years, Mizael?”

“Hope,” Mizael said after a moment of thought.

“Hope,” Durbe repeated. He lifted himself onto his elbow so he could look down at Mizael’s face. He smiled gently at the jolt in Mizael’s heart as Durbe brushed the hair from his cheeks. “For completeness?”

“I’d given up on that a long time ago.” Mizael lifted a hand and pulled Durbe’s face close. “All I hoped for was a reason to live.”

He couldn’t tell whether the tears at the corners of his eyes were his own or Durbe’s, but it didn’t matter. Durbe’s peace and his own were the same. They were truly unified in a way even Barians who had exchanged souls could never hope to achieve.

They were complete.

“Mizael,” Durbe murmured, pulling his lips away from Mizael’s, “I’m exhausted.”

“From which part?”

There was a flash of amusement before Durbe rested his head on the pillow next to Mizael’s ear. “It wasn’t as draining as the soul extraction.” He laughed softly. “The noises you made were much more pleasing to the ear than the screams of the Arclights and Kaito.”

Mizael rolled his eyes. He could feel more than Durbe’s emotions. He felt the added layer of physical fatigue on top of his own. Durbe’s fatigue. And he knew Durbe felt his, because the process of a soul transfer  _was_ physically draining. And it had cost them each a few months of their lives, even when their lives were already short. It was why Mizael had given years of his life to Durbe the night before. While soul transfers required energy on both side’s behalf, energy transfers travelled only one way: from one Barian’s soul into another’s.

And Mizael didn’t need his energy as much as Durbe did. After all, there was a very real chance that Mizael wouldn’t even live another month.

“What’s bothering you?” Durbe lifted a hand to Mizael’s injured shoulder. The skin was burned so deeply that he couldn’t feel anything there anymore – not pain, nor pleasure. He wanted to say that nothing was the matter, but there were no secrets between them any longer. There never could be again.

“I think I’m going to die soon, Durbe.”

The words were surprisingly calm, and Mizael felt an odd sense of peace when he spoke the words. His heart felt as though it were caving in on itself, but he knew it wasn’t his own. It was Durbe’s.

“I won’t let that happen.”

“Everyone dies, Durbe.” Mizael lifted himself over Durbe and silenced the lord’s attempted protest with a forceful kiss. Durbe’s eyes fluttered closed and he let himself melt at Mizael’s touch, let his arms find their way around Mizael’s bare body—

A firm knock at the door sent a spike of terror through both of them.

—-

There were a number of ramshackle wooden lodgings scattered throughout the forest. Many had been used for logging operations for years; others for stripping tannin from bark to make leather. They were largely abandoned now, which Yuma supposed was a good reason that Reina and the remaining soldiers had taken up refuge in them. The shelter she led them to had a leaky roof and a dirt floor, with a number of spiders and other unsavory insects crawling over the rotting wood. There was no one there, which unnerved Yuma but didn’t seem to bother Reina and Charlie; during the day, Reina explained, they spent most of the time outdoors, trying to do any small thing they could to disrupt Barian commerce and activity in the forest. At night, they used the shelters for protection against rain and wind and wild animals, and they never stayed in the same shelter twice in a row. Yuma supposed it was a good plan. It would make tracking them more difficult for the Barians.

When they were all settled, Reina pulled a dusty bottle and a few chipped glasses from a dilapidated cupboard and poured them each a glass. Yuma ignored the whiskey, and so did Anna, who grimaced at it, but Charlie downed his in one and gazed longingly at the half-empty bottle on the table.

“What’s the Captain-Commander’s plan?” Reina absently tossed her knife point-down into the table and picked it up again, repeating the process as though she did it all the time. Which, Yuma reflected, she probably did.

“A big diversion where probably everyone involved gets killed while a half dozen people sneak into the palace and murder Emperor Vector,” Anna said dully.

Charlie muttered a series of oaths and dragged his hand across his unshaven face. Reina simply looked thoughtful, and continued her methodic knife-tossing.

“Yeah, that ain’t really something he would do, is it.” She propped her feet up on the table, displaying the worn soles of her cracked leather boots. “What’s _your_  plan, Lieutenant?”

Yuma stared at his folded hands. Tactics were always the captain’s strong suit, not his. Everything he’d learned about positioning armies had come from Ryoga. And he didn’t really have a clear idea of what he wanted his plan to entail, aside from not having everyone get killed mounting an illusory assault on the Astral Kingdom that Vector could fairly easily see right through and put down without breaking a sweat.

But something occurred to him. Something stupid, something risky, but it was better than the alternative.

“You said there were soldiers who joined up with the river bandits, right?”

“Mm-hm.”

“We’re going to recruit them.”

Reina’s hand slipped in surprise and had Charlie not moved his hand from the table at Yuma’s pronouncement, he might have ended up with the knife neatly planted in it. “We’re gonna  _what_ the bandits?”

“Recruit,” Yuma said firmly. “We’re going to gather a small force and make like we’re moving on Arclight. The Barians will focus their attention there. Meanwhile, a small group is going to discreetly enter the Astral Palace, and we’re going to recapture it.”

A small noise escaped Reina’s throat, as though she were trying to determine whether she wanted to laugh or swear. She looked at Anna and held out her hands questioningly. Anna, for her part, seemed resigned to the plan and merely shrugged.

“I’ve gotten to the point where I’m practically immune to shock from these men’s stupid plans,” she said wearily.

“Look, with all due respect, Lieutenant,” Reina said with no attempt at respect, “I get that you’re not all that keen on the captain’s plan, but backstabbing him? And you want  _me_ to help you disobey my commander’s orders?”

_I’m not a captain anymore. There’s no army left for me to lead._

But he was Yuma’s captain. That was what Yuma had told him, and he believed that even now. Ryoga  _was_ still his captain, was still the man he cared deeply for. In any other situation, Ryoga would know the right thing to do. Deep down, he had to know this wasn’t the right path. Deep down, he would want to fight for a new future, free of the gods’ strings. Ryoga’s duty was to destroy the Barians at all costs, and Yuma’s was to protect his prince. If they clashed, Yuma had no choice. He would save Astral, even at the expense of crossing Ryoga.

“Anna.” Yuma turned to her. “Does this blacksmith have contact with the pirates? Tetsuo, wasn’t it?”

“Tetsuo Takeda?” Charlie blurted. “He’ll sell weapons to anyone who pays him the highest.”

“I hear tales sometimes about these bandits getting hold of magic weapons that kill Barians real easy,” Reina said, though she still scowled at Yuma. “There’s only one blacksmith with that kind of skill on this entire part of the continent.”

“Is he close?”

Reina took a swig of whiskey straight from a bottle on the table. “Eh, ‘bout twelve miles. Y’all lost your goddamn minds if you think you can appeal to that guy in any way but the purse, though.”

If this Tetsuo  _had_  sold their Barian-killing weapons to the bandits and mercenaries, which it sounded as though he had, there would only be one reason for going to see him. He may not have had the weapons, but he had the connections. And those connections… were vital to Yuma’s plan.

“Let’s pay him a visit,” Yuma said quietly, climbing to his feet. “We’re almost out of time.”

—-

Just as Ilya lifted her hand to knock again, the door swung open, and Mizael stood there, a contemptuous look in his human face as his hand remained firmly attached to the doorknob.

His hair was disheveled, and he wore only a loose pair of trousers. It was no wonder he wasn’t wearing a shirt; from his shallow breaths and the way his skin took on a slight gleam of sweat, he seemed to have an elevated temperature again. Her eyes lingered a moment on the wicked burn across his shoulder. Vector’s doing, undoubtedly, but Ilya hadn’t seen it before. She wondered briefly why he hadn’t made an effort to Heal it before Mizael spoke.

“ _What_.”

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly and peered past him into the bedroom. His bed was a mess, with sheets and pillows strewn haphazardly all around and the tapestries shredded. “Good morning, General. I’m looking for Lord Durbe?”

Mizael’s eyes narrowed just enough for Ilya to notice. “Durbe’s quarters are down the hall.”

“Of course.” She scanned the room. Nothing but the bed seemed disorganized, and no one else seemed to be in the room. And yet, Ilya was certain she had heard whispers. “Is something the matter, General?”

“Only that you interrupted my sleep,” he said curtly. “If that is all, I am going back to-”

“Are you sleeping well, General?” she interrupted. In all honesty, she didn’t really have the time to be trying to get to know Mizael better when Heartland was steadily slipping into anarchy, but there was that kinship she felt with him. Unwanted freaks, ostracized and hated and mocked, but both overcoming the odds that destiny had stacked against them to become powerful leaders. “You look ill.”

His lips tightened. “Why are you still here?”

“That’s no way to speak to a lord, General.”

He opened his mouth, probably to make a scathing remark, but decided against it at the last minute. Instead, he huffed. “Why are you still here,  _Lord Ilya_?”

She should have known he wasn’t going to treat her with the respect she deserved. “I wonder, General, may I come in?”

“No.” He brushed his tangled mess of hair behind his shoulder. “I am not feeling… well. I would like some sleep. Try Durbe’s quarters instead of coming to me.”

“That’s just the thing, General,” Ilya said with as much patience as she could muster with the situation. “I did. He’s not there. He’s not in Baria, he’s not in Arclight, so he must be here in Tenjo  _somewhere_ , but I don’t seem to be able to find him.”

Mizael hesitated for an almost imperceptible second.

Almost.

“He probably had business to attend to elsewhere, then. Contrary to popular belief, he does not need my constant presence every time he leaves.”

He made to close the door, but Ilya threw out a small hand and caught it. “Ah, well, might I ask one last thing, General?”

“I suppose I don’t have a choice in the matter.” He ground his teeth together so hard she could practically hear it.

“Well.” She let her lips curl up in a smile and she tapped her chin thoughtfully. “We  _are_  in the Tenjo Kingdom, but I noticed that we seem to be – how shall I put this – minus two Tenjos. Might you know where they are?”

“No,” he said bluntly, and from the way he narrowed his eyes in irritation, she figured he probably didn’t. “Good day.”

“Are you suffering from nightmares, General Mizael?” she piped up, and the door paused an inch from being slammed shut. There were really only two reasons his bed would have been in such disarray. He wouldn’t deny the safer way out.

“I think you know as well as I do the pains of the past, and they are not so easy to forget,” Mizael said softly before shutting the door. She heard the lock scrape.

She stared at it for a moment, contemplatively. She understood, and very well. It had taken her years to place herself in command of her nightmares – nights where she would be trapped in that cage again, starved and mocked while humans and Barians both threw water on her.

_Do a trick._

_You freak._

_You look hot. Have some water._

Yes, she would buy that Mizael had nightmares, and that would explain the whispers – she used to talk in her sleep, too, after all, because they might have been memories, but they were  _real_  and she was frightened – as well as explain the disarray of his bed.

But nothing really explained the faint fingernail marks in the skin on Mizael’s hips and sides. She doubted they were his own.


	57. Insecurities

The palace was her home now, and she a ruler within it. But she found herself peering furtively around corners and taking long ways around whenever she heard anyone else approaching. She was perfectly at liberty to visit her own grandmother in the kitchens. She wasn’t worried about not being allowed in any areas of the palace. She was worried about running into someone. The new master of the kingdom. Byron may be king, but Akari knew that Alasco held Byron’s strings and danced him along like a sadistic puppeteer.

She was  _scared_. She had been kidnapped, held prisoner, starved, interrogated, told all along that her brother – her only brother, the brother she had never reconciled with – was dead. But he wasn’t.

She’d seen what the Barians had done to him instead. She would never forget the sight of him, strapped to the table with wicked gouges carved into his skin. She would never forget the vivid details of his most painful memory, she would never forget the way his body quaked, the way his fingers clenched at her clothing while he buried his face into her chest, sobbing like a child as he futilely sought his sister’s comfort. She would never forget the lack of emotion in Lord Durbe’s voice as he recounted it.

She would never forget the way Alasco  _laughed_ as he told her about how he’d murdered her father.

They were terrifying creatures. Try as she might to put on a mask of indifference and impudence, she couldn’t pretend to herself that they didn’t make her want to throw up, that they didn’t give her nightmares, and that she was deathly afraid of them.

Akari hadn’t spoken to her grandmother since the wedding – the farce wedding, the empty ceremony that the entire royal family and half the Barian lords attended – and wasn’t sure what to say when she finally reached the spacious, spotless marble kitchens. At first, they stared at each other. Haru looked much healthier than she had last time Akari saw her – her face was rounder, had more color, and the stress lines were less pronounced. Akari was sure that her own face looked worse for the wear than it had before. It was perhaps the despondence on Akari’s face that caused Haru to drop the spoon she was holding into the pot of a tomato-based soup and throw her arms around her granddaughter.

“Thank the gods you’re all right,” Haru murmured. She held Akari at arms’ length and gazed up at her. “I was told you weren’t in the kingdom. I was worried something might have happened to you.”

“I’m okay.” The words probably sounded as unconvincing as they actually were, and Haru frowned for a  moment before turning to her assistant.

“Add a dash more basil, and let it simmer for a bit,” she instructed, gingerly plucking the spoon out of the soup. “I’ll be right back.”

Akari let her grandmother lead her to the wine cellar. Unlike the kitchens, which were brightly lit and warm, the cellar was down a set of stone stairs, dark, and chilly. It made sense for what the chamber held, but it still made Akari uncomfortable. She rubbed her forearm as Haru closed the door behind them and descended the stairs, holding up a single flickering candle in a lantern.

“What’s wrong, Akari? What happened?”

She didn’t know where to begin. Her eyes settled on a bottle of red wine and she mumbled Alasco’s name.

“What?” Haru looked puzzled. “Dear, you’re going to have to enunciate better than that.”

Akari began to regret entering into this conversation. But it would help, wouldn’t it? It would help to say it out loud. “Alasco. He… he was the one…”

Abruptly, she realized that Haru had been Kazuma’s mother. She knew her son was dead, but no one had ever said how, or why. Akari knew, though. And she was about to say it, say the words out loud…

“What did he do, Akari?” Haru pressed gently.

“He killed Dad.” The words came out in barely more than a whisper, and in the shadowy light of the single flickering candle, she could see the stunned disbelief in Haru’s face.

It was a long moment before Haru spoke in a quiet voice. “How did you come by this information?”

Akari closed her eyes and leaned her head against the stone wall. “He told me.” Every ounce of calmness evaporated as she let out a sob. “Oh gods, Gran. He told me. He… he betrayed him. Pretended to be his friend and then… and then…”

There was a dull thud in her knees and she realized she’d fallen to the ground; her grandmother, a small woman, wrapped her arms around Akari’s shoulders.

“He p-pretended to… to… to be his friend,” Akari whispered through a set of hiccups.

“I know, Akari. I know.” Haru stroked her hair tenderly.

“I’m scared, Gran. I’m… I’m terrified of him.” Akari looked up through waterlogged eyes. She hadn’t cried in a very long time. Now that the dam was open, the water continued to flow unabated. “I can’t… live here when he’s here.”

“What of Lord Christopher?”

“I don’t know where he went.” It was painful, lying to her grandmother, but the less Haru knew, the less leverage the Barians might have if they went to her for information. “And I tolerate him now, at least. But Gran, I don’t love him. I’ll never be able to love him.”  _Not after what he did._  She trusted Chris, to a degree. But a shaky friendship was all she would ever feel for the man, and not only because she knew he still loved Kaito Tenjo.

“Don’t let Lord Alasco into your head,” Haru whispered, placing her hands on Akari’s face. “He’s trying to wear you down until you break. He’s going to keep talking about—“ Her voice quivered for a moment before she regained her composure. “About my son. He’ll talk about Kazuma’s death. And then he’ll try to convince you that Yuma is dead. That’s his goal, to demoralize you to the point where he can control you, to turn the royal family into puppets. And by the gods, Akari, you are no man’s puppet, let alone a _Barian_ man’s.”

Despite herself, Akari smiled weakly. “Thanks, Gran.”

Haru returned the smile. “Keep your chin up, dear. When he tries to wear you down, it will hurt, but you can’t let him see it. Don’t let him know you’re hurting. Don’t let your fear consume you.” She led Akari back into the kitchens and snuffed out the lantern. “Whether you want it or not, you are the heiress to the throne. Overcome your fear of the monster now, and you will be a formidable queen indeed someday.”

—-

War was a profitable venture.

Everyone needed a weapon – to protect, to attack; it didn’t matter which – no matter what side of this conflict they were on. Tetsuo serviced the Barian military while simultaneously providing weapons to mercenaries and former foot soldiers, to pirates as well as royalty. And he had crafted weapons for all of these groups. He kept busy.

Too busy.

 _Weapons shouldn’t be for taking lives, but for protecting them,_  the master blacksmith he apprenticed under used to say. He wouldn’t carry around a weapon even for safety. It was the reason he’d been killed, being unable to strike back at the bandits who attacked him.  _Every weapon you make, you pour a little bit of your soul into it. War is ugly business, and every weapon you make that takes a life comes back to you._

He’d lost track of how many weapons he’d crafted in recent months, but he tried to forget his master’s teachings. They hadn’t done the old man any good. What good would it do Tetsuo?

Then there was Anna, arriving at his door two weeks late, bringing with her not the assassins and the woman who liked talking to the wild animals nearby, but the perpetually unimpressed ex-soldier, Reina; the unmistakable scruffy face of the infamous gambler Charlie McCay; and a young man – perhaps around Tetsuo’s own age – with wildly unkempt hair, soft, troubled eyes, and a familiar look to him that Tetsuo couldn’t quite pin down.

He sighed heavily and blocked the doorway with his body. “To what do I owe your presence again, Anna?”

“I told you I’d be back to pick them up, you snake,” she hissed, prodding him in the chest. “I’m hearing all these stories about Barian-killing weapons being used in Heartland. Is that your doing?”

He batted her hand away impatiently. “You said you’d be back in a week. It was over a week, and I assumed you weren’t coming back.” In any case, he didn’t want to be the one to keep weapons like that in his shop, not with the Barians snooping around everywhere. He was a neutral party in this war.

“So you sold them to  _pirates_?” Anna squared up against him. She was perhaps four inches shorter, but by her rigid posture and confident stance, she somehow managed to be eye level.

“They paid a good price for-”

“It doesn’t  _matter_ how good a price they paid, you dolt; do you have any idea how much we went through to get the-”

The unidentified man placed a calloused hand on her shoulder. She cut off abruptly as he stepped forward.

“If you don’t have the weapons,” he said in a gentle, weary voice, “we need you to at least tell us where we can find the people who do.”

Tetsuo gaped at the man, searching his face for any sign of wry humor. He found nothing but a sorrowful expression filling the soft red eyes, offset only by the way his jaw was set determinedly. “You’re kidding, right?”

“We can only wish,” Reina muttered, taking a swig of something from a flask at her hip. “May the gods help us.”

The man smiled, almost apologetically. “I’m afraid not.”

Within a few minutes, the four visitors were seated around Tetsuo’s cluttered sitting room and a kettle of hot water was heating over the fire. Now that they were inside, out of the dark, Tetsuo realized why the man’s face seemed vaguely familiar.

Those two Barians had been looking for him.

Tetsuo had two choices. He could mislead the group toward the Barians and collect the reward or he could help them so they would go away and pray that nothing he did got traced back to him.

Well, there was a third option, but Tetsuo figured doing nothing was going to give him nothing but trouble.

“I don’t have the weapons,” he said after a lengthy, uncomfortable silence. “Two Barians showed up at my door. Said they were looking for a few people.” He glanced at the man. “Two Dragoons and a man wanted for the attempted murder of Emperor Vector.”

McCay buried his head in one large hand and muttered what sounded like a frantic prayer.

“And you didn’t want to be found with the weapons.” Reina cocked her head. “So you got rid of ‘em quick as you could.”

“You’re damn right I did.” Tetsuo pointed at Anna. “I didn’t even know if you would be back. So when this man showed up and offered me all this money to take them off my hands, I agreed.”

“This man.” The unnamed man sat up straighter. “What did he look like?”

“I don’t know!” Tetsuo threw his hands up and cast his eyes wildly for something to distract him. He went to stoke the fire and removed the hot kettle of water from it. “I didn’t see his face. He was cloaked. Just like I prefer everyone be when doing business. Less questions that way.”

“Do you remember anything about him?” the man pressed. “Height, accent, mannerisms?”

“Must’ve been pretty well-off to afford all them weapons,” Reina commented.

This was all too much. Tetsuo didn’t want to get dragged into this mess. He just wanted to continue living his comfortable life as a blacksmith, without worrying about breaking laws or getting tangled up in some interracial worldwide conflict. He profited from neutrality. It was what he prided himself on. “I don’t remember anything. Tea?”

He’d hoped for the tea to become a distraction, but instead, he found Reina standing behind him with a knife at his throat. She may have been several inches shorter and weighed maybe a third what Tetsuo weighed, but she was damn persuasive. He was fairly sure that his legs were shaking visibly.

“Reina,” the man warned sharply, but she shook her head.

“Nothing against you, Lieutenant, but sometimes the best way to get info is by  _making_  ‘em tell you.”

The lieutenant stood. “Reina, put the knife down. If he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. Trying to coerce him isn’t the best way. Violence is never the best way.”

There was a long pause while Anna cowered in her chair, Reina’s hand tightened around the knife at Tetsuo’s throat, and McCay remained motionless. The lieutenant held out a hand.

“We’re leaving,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”

After an eternally slow silence, Reina pulled the knife away and stalked out the door without another word. The lieutenant let out a low breath and frowned after her.

“Thank you for your time,” he said to Tetsuo on his way out.

Tetsuo had about ten seconds to decide to do what he did next. The lieutenant had spared Tetsuo’s life. More than that, he had demonstrated a rather admirable quality – a disdain for violence. He was a battle-hardened man; Tetsuo could see this from his tired face and the faint darkness in his otherwise bright eyes. But he didn’t revel in it. Not the way so many others did. He wanted an end to the fighting.

“Hey.”

The man half-turned in the doorway. He didn’t say anything.

“He had a bracelet,” Tetsuo said. He figured it didn’t mean anything. What was one more wealthy man to a military man? “It had a pink stone in it. Carved fancy.”

Maybe it was just his imagination, but he had a feeling the lieutenant knew _exactly_  who he was talking about.

“Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”

The door closed behind them and Tetsuo sat down in a vacated chair.

“I’m not getting mixed up in this,” he said firmly to the tea kettle.

The tea kettle steamed unhelpfully, and Tetsuo decided that he would rather have gin instead.

—-

For a long moment, Chris and Kaito gazed at one another, unmoving. Even Ryoga paused to stare between the two of them.

“I’m not armed,” Chris said calmly, not taking his eyes from Kaito. He held his hands out, palms up. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“You gave your soul to the Barians,” Ryoga hissed, held back only by Prince Astral’s firm grip on his shoulder. “I should kill you here for that.”

“Violence isn’t the solution to all life’s problems,  _Captain_ ,” Kotori said, her voice so stiff Kaito could almost feel the contempt dripping from it.

“That’s enough,” Astral said softly. “Let him speak.”

Chris held his head up with all the royal Arclight arrogance Kaito remembered him having before this whole mess began. “I need to have a talk with Kaito. Alone.”

Ryoga let out a wild laugh. “Alone? Is it really a  _conversation_  you’re after, here?”

 Kaito flinched. Of course. Thomas had mentioned… But then, Kaito didn’t need to deny it now. It was no longer a secret. “Remember who you’re speaking to,” he said in a soft, level voice. “How does the saying go? ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone’?”

He took a moment to appreciate the way Ryoga’s jaw clenched, but the captain turned his back and thrust the lance tip-down in the earth before stalking several paces away. The assassins watched him with wariness, the Healer with narrowed eyes, and the animal woman with mild interest. Prince Astral frowned at the ground, shaking his head slightly.

Kaito tore his eyes away from his travelling companions and turned to his ex-lover. “What are you doing here, Chris?”

Chris’s eyes flickered over the group behind Kaito before he smiled humorlessly. “You hang out with an unsavory bunch now.”

“You didn’t leave me much choice.” Kaito couldn’t keep the bite out of his voice, and Chris’s smile faded.  “Answer my question or go away.”

He tried to ignore the twinge of guilt when Chris stared at the ground, mouth thinning, but it strung at him like a harp. “Lord Durbe has lost Arclight.”

“ _What_?”

“Lord Alasco is controlling the kingdom now, and… gods.” Chris closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “He murdered my… my wife’s father.” The word sounded awkward from Chris’s lips. “In Sargasso. Betrayed him, years ago.”

Yuma’s father, Kazuma Tsukumo. Alasco had murdered him. But what had the man been doing in Sargasso…? Unless— “There was a ritual there, Chris. Someone murdered all of the Barians in that village, years ago.” He’d seen them. He’d heard their cries for justice.

“If not Alasco, then he at least knew of it,” Chris said quietly. “But it was well before he became a lord. It was well before most of them became lords.”

Chris suspected that Alasco might have become a lord  _because_ of what had happened in Sargasso. Kaito was sure of this. But he didn’t press the issue. There were other things on his mind. “What of Lord Heartland?”

“He’s… missing.” Chris frowned deeply. “His kingdom is in shambles. Lord Ilya is in charge, but pirates and bandits and mercenaries have all but overrun the city. I… tried to hire some of them to kill Alasco, but the bastard slipped through it. I had to pretend they were trying to assassinate me instead, on his orders. I’m not sure it worked.”

“Gods.” Kaito rubbed his marked eye. He felt very tired. The captain’s plan nagged at the back of his mind – bring these ex-soldiers and mercenaries together for a diversion, then kill Vector. Yuma… Yuma doubtless set off to convince them not to join Ryoga. Part of Kaito figured that he should warn Ryoga of this, but the other part of him wanted Ryoga’s plan to fail.  _Let’s see where your defiance of Fate takes you, Yuma Tsukumo._ “And you’re here to, what? Apologize?”

“Something like that.” Chris stepped closer. Kaito didn’t move. “You were right, Kaito. About fighting the Barians. All along.”

“Of course I was.” Kaito didn’t look up into Chris’s eyes, focusing instead on the silver clasp holding Chris’s cloak in place. He stood so close that Kaito could see the faint etching in the silver, that of the Arclight family crest. “But it didn’t stop me from fucking up anyway.”

“We all fuck up.” Chris lifted a hand to Kaito’s cheek, but paused with his fingertips a hair’s breadth away. Kaito wanted to lean into it, to feel Chris’s hand on his face, but he remained still. He could almost feel the cold metal of the golden wedding band on Chris’s finger. “When those of us with influence fuck up, it’s always a lot worse, you know.” Kaito lifted his head in time to see Chris smile faintly and stare up at the moon. “More people feel the impact of your decisions. I made a choice and my brothers paid the price. Just as your brother did for yours.”

And that, Kaito thought bitterly, was the worst part of playing out this despicable fate. Haruto didn’t deserve to be dragged into this. He didn’t need to be. This was Kaito’s fight, Kaito’s choice; why did Haruto have to pay the price for Kaito’s sins? “Why did you come here, Chris?”

Chris closed his eyes. “I have something for you. It might not matter now, but I think you should know. If it will set your mind at ease.”

Kaito furrowed his brows at the crumpled piece of paper Chris held out to him. “What-”

“I hope it helps you.” The hand Chris held so close to Kaito’s face hadn’t moved. Now he let it fall to Kaito’s shoulder, which he squeezed gently before stepping back. “Maybe next time we meet, we will be friends again.”

And then he was gone.

“I hope so too,” Kaito whispered, looking at the words written in neat script on the paper. He had to read it three times before he finally realized that he wasn’t reading it wrong.

His entire world shattered.

He dimly recognized the sensation of falling, a faint thump and a numbing sensation in his shoulder, and when he managed to gain his bearings again, he looked up at Prince Astral, who knelt with him next to a tree he had fallen into.

“What did he do to you?” Astral murmured, his hand resting gently on the same shoulder Chris had rested his own hand on.

“Nothing,” Kaito breathed. His hand clenched the paper and he felt beads of sweat form on his forehead.  He must have blacked out for a moment. Shock, maybe; he wouldn’t doubt it if that was the case. “I don’t need a Healer,” he added harshly as Kotori approached. With effort, he dragged himself to his feet again. He placed his shaking hand on his sword hilt, taking shaky steps away from Astral before leaning against a different tree. He felt like throwing up. “I need to go.”

“Go where?” Ryoga’s arms were crossed and he stared Kaito down with a look of near murder.

 _A place where, once, humans and Barians tried to live in harmony._ “I don’t know. I guess I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

Before anyone could get within striking distance of him, he stepped through a portal–

-into the village in Sargasso.

It wasn’t where he had intended to go, so it was clear he was right about at least one thing. Some terrible event had happened here, and Kaito had to figure out what.

He felt the restless spirits before he saw them. It was between sunset and sunrise, and this was their time. He was an intruder here, and if he was wrong, he would die.

_Have you come to offer us our justice?_

“Yes, I have come to seek penance for my sins,” Kaito said quietly. The spirits stirred, their pale faces coming closer. He looked beyond them, toward the village square, where the array of depleted soul gems lay undisturbed from the last time he had been here, weeks ago. “I know…”  _I_ think _I know._ “I know who did this to you. But before I do, I need to know something from you.”

The lead revenant tilted its head at him.  _You seek the Dragon._

“Yes.”

 _So many others have sought the Dragon as well._ Close up, this lead revenant looked faintly familiar. He had somewhat pointy ears and eyes that would unmistakably have been a shade of greyish-blue.  _My brother among them. He and his only living friend seek the Power to protect the ones they love. What do you want it for, Kaito Tenjo?_

The Dragon had said that very thing to him in the dream. “To protect someone I love,” he whispered. He thought he knew the answer, but he asked anyway. “Who is your brother?”

 _The only one who escaped this pain._ The revenant waved a hand vaguely.  _The one who escaped this pain and inflicted it on others. Who murdered. Who sinned. Whose soul is drenched in the blood of others, of those he once called his friends._ It laughed, a high giggle that made the hairs on Kaito’s arms and neck stand up.  _It is all in the past. He will pay for his own sins. What of yours, Kaito Tenjo? What is it you need to know?_

The paper was still clenched in Kaito’s hand. He had not yet drawn his sword, but he wasn’t sure he was going to. It wouldn’t have done him any good either way. “This place was a haven for Barians and humans alike. How long?”

There was a tiny smile on the spirit’s face as a few others gazed intently upon Kaito.  _It was once a barren place where only the most impoverished Barians lived. When the first human came… it was several generations ago._

Kaito’s mouth went dry, and it wasn’t entirely because of the dry desert air. “What was their name?”

 _We’ll give you one chance to guess correctly._ This time, the revenant smiled widely, showing its pointed teeth.

Part of him hoped he was wrong. Part of him refused to believe it was true, any of it.

But he needed to know for sure, and ignoring the pounding in his head and the spike of pain in his chest, he took a breath.

“Mata Simin.”

His ancestor.

A Dragoon.


	58. Best-Laid Plans

His eyes opened, and the forest floor came into view, greens and browns blurring together in a haze. With a grunt of effort, he climbed to his knees and looked around, his vision clearing. It seemed to be the same area of the forest he’d been walking through. Then again, after days of walking through forests of the same three species of hardwoods, everything started to look the same.

But it was eerily silent. There was no wind, no sound of birds or rodents or… anything. And he had no idea why he’d been lying on the ground. His head didn’t hurt, so there probably wasn’t an injury. He still had his sword, so there hadn’t been any thieves or Barians.

“Anna?” he called out hesitantly. “Reina?” When there was no response, he sighed. “Or Charlie, I guess.”

A twig snapped behind him and he turned, scrambling to his feet. Instead of being any of his travelling companions, there was a man with familiar hair and a familiar black cloak lined in red, and an equally familiar mixed expression of disapproval, irritation, anger, and confusion.

“Captain,” he said in a nervous voice. He wondered whether going for his sword would be a wise idea. The captain didn’t appear to be armed – his lance was missing – but Yuma had no idea what he might have been planning. If it came down to a swordfight, Yuma would have the advantage, but he didn’t want to hurt Ryoga. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure Ryoga would be so considerate toward him. “Um, hello.”

“Yuma.” Ryoga studied Yuma’s face for a moment, and Yuma looked at the ground, flinching in anticipation of the berating he would receive. He’d hardly lasted a week before Ryoga caught up to him. Typical; Ryoga hadn’t been the Captain-Commander of the entire Astral Guard by sitting around. He was a Dragoon, too. His tracking skills were always much better than Yuma’s. “You disobeyed my orders, went behind my back, and stirred up my own soldiers against me.”

“Yes,” Yuma mumbled, still staring at his feet. He shifted uncomfortably and decided on the partial truth. “I believed you unfit for duty, so as the next highest-ranking officer, I—“

Ryoga laughed, and Yuma glanced up. It wasn’t the dry laugh Ryoga usually had, or the bone-chillingly vengeful one; it was full of humor, accompanied by a warm smile. “That’s treason, Yuma.”

“I-”

Yuma barely managed to stammer out the beginning of a response when Ryoga stepped forward, grabbed Yuma by the back of the neck, and pushed their lips together.

A quiet moan of surprise slipped from Yuma’s throat, quickly softening into a sigh, and Yuma’s hands found Ryoga’s waist. He’d despaired of ever feeling Ryoga’s touch again – of Ryoga’s smile against his lips, of the slender curves in Ryoga’s hips, of the gentle tug of his captain’s fingers in his hair – but there they were, and Yuma didn’t want to let go.

But it couldn’t last, not when there was still so much to be done.

“Captain,” Yuma breathed, pulling his lips away, “I don’t understand.”

“We’re going to strike down our destinies,” Ryoga whispered, thumbing the stubble along Yuma’s jaw. Yuma had to resist the urge to place his own hands on Ryoga’s face and instead rested them on either curve of Ryoga’s waist. “Gods, Yuma, I couldn’t be more proud of you.”

“Even though I disobeyed your orders, went behind your back, and stirred up your own soldiers against you?” Yuma felt a tiny smile tug at the corners of his mouth and Ryoga laughed again, quieter this time.

“ _Especially_  since you did all those things.” He pulled Yuma into a tight embrace, and Yuma’s arms hesitantly worked their way around Ryoga’s waist again. “You knew, throughout it all, that I would never ask you to do destroy yourself to kill Vector. You knew there was something wrong, you never gave up on me, and you would never let anyone die in your place.” His voice broke, his grip tightening. “Damn everything, I don’t deserve you, Yuma.”

Yuma let his tears fall on Ryoga’s shoulder. This was all…

…too good to be true.

“This is a dream,” he whispered into Ryoga’s hair, which, he now realized, was much too soft to belong to a travelling fugitive. When Ryoga tensed up, Yuma slumped in his arms. “That’s all this is…”

Ryoga lifted Yuma to his feet again and held him at arms’ length, so they could look straight into one another’s faces. Yuma tried not to look into Ryoga’s eyes. “Is that what you think I am, Yuma? A dream?”

 _He has to be._  There was a memory surfacing – fuzzy, indistinct, but it was there – of Yuma in the forest, and Reina was there, and Anna, and Charlie, and so were five or six others. He pressed a hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. “If this is real, where are they, Ryoga? The people with me?” His head should have hurt. He had a feeling he’d been hit with something… heavy. But there was no pain at all. Even the tingling of the scars on his back had stopped—

— _wait_ —

“Yuma—“

He stepped forward. Before Ryoga could do more than give him a puzzled look, Yuma was kissing him again, but this time his hands tugged at Ryoga’s shirt and slid up Ryoga’s bare torso.

“Wait,” Ryoga choked out, attempting in vain to pull Yuma’s hands from his skin, but it was too late.

“No scars,” Yuma whispered, closing his eyes, and he took a step back. “Damn it, damn it… why can’t you be real? Why can’t I have… one goddamn good thing…”

Ryoga pulled Yuma close again but his warmth was artificial now. He wasn’t the real Ryoga, wasn’t the captain Yuma had fallen for. He existed only in Yuma’s memory.

“I am real,” Ryoga said quietly, placing his hands on Yuma’s shoulders. “Just not in the way you think.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Yuma pushed him away. Ryoga barely stumbled. “This isn’t the forest.” He waved a hand at the too-still trees, at the too-quiet brambles. “Is this an illusion? Is that it? I’m being tormented for not going along with this stupid—“

But that was it, wasn’t it?  _His_  Ryoga was gone, replaced by a monster.  _His_ Ryoga had scars on his stomach and chest and legs and neck, but this one didn’t.

 _His_ Ryoga would never do this to him.

“I’m dead.”

Ryoga shook his head and tore his eyes away. “You’re alive.”

“What the hell is going on? What is that… that  _thing_  down there pretending to be Ryoga Kamishiro?”

“That  _thing_ ,” a cool voice said from behind him, “is an emissary of the gods.”

The figure standing there had many of Astral’s features – white-blond hair, facial markings, ethereally pale skin, high cheekbones – but instead of being thin, this individual was built like a warrior, dressed in armor that glistened with precious jewels. Yuma heard Ryoga hiss a name.

“ _Eliphas._ ”

“Instead of fixing him, you corrupt him further,” Eliphas said, narrowing their eyes at Ryoga. “Instead of dispelling the illusion that you could have a _future_  together” –they spat out the word like it was poison—“you continue giving him a reason to defy the Fate that defines his very existence. I grow tired of your interference, Ryoga Kamishiro.”

Ryoga’s eyes flashed with anger. “Is that why you brought him here? So that I could  _fix_ him? He’s not  _corrupted_ , you bastard—“

“You pretend to be detached and full of righteous vengeance and hatred,” Eliphas cut in. “But you are just as soft as the rest of them.” They made a sound reminiscent of a laugh, but there was not even a hint of a smile on their face. It sent chills through Yuma’s body. “Look how desperately the little monster wants to be a human, just like its worthless father. Leave, Ryoga Kamishiro. Go to your sister. Live out your abominable fantasies in the Void for the rest of your lonely, miserable existence. Live them out, and know that they are not real, and never will be.”

“Shut up,” Yuma said softly.

Eliphas turned their eyes to Yuma and quirked an eyebrow. “What did you say to me?”

“I told you to shut up.” Yuma lifted his chin and stared the god in the eyes. “You don’t have the right to speak to him that way.”

He didn’t know what compelled him to utter these words, only that Eliphas most certainly  _did_  have the right to say those things to Ryoga. They also, Yuma realized with a slight grimace, had the power to enforce their will. He was in Astral World – that much was clear now – and the gods had all the power here.

But when Yuma looked at the trembling Ryoga, looked at how broken and scared and  _tormented_  Ryoga was, he could have stared even into Don Thousand’s eyes with defiance.

“I do not have the  _right_?” This time, Eliphas did laugh. The chills intensified. “Ryoga Kamishiro is here only through our  _mercy_! If we had not extended our hand to him, he would be in Hell where others of his kind belong, having his soul shredded as he awaits his inevitable rebirth as a  _Barian_!  _Do not speak to me about having the right to say the things I say, Yuma Tsukumo_!”

“What the fuck is your  _mercy_?” Ryoga was at Yuma’s side now, cheeks stained with tears. His eyes were wide with fury. “Creating Yuma to balance the scales the Barians tipped when they created me and Rio? Creating a savior with an infinite fount of love and empathy for everyone around him? Creating him to watch the people he loves suffer  _every fucking day_? Where is that goddamn  _mercy,_  Eliphas!”

 _Creating me? A savior?_ “Ryoga, what are—“

“Enough!” Eliphas roared. “You were to be his  _opposite_ , Yuma Tsukumo! We created you to kill the Barians, and that is what you will do if it kills _you_!”

Yuma’s shaking knees could no longer support his body, and he fell to the ground. Ryoga knelt next to him, wrapping an arm around Yuma’s shoulders to hold him up.

He was a miracle birth. His parents told him that when he was young. He’d always found a sense of purpose when he thought about it, that he was destined for something great. That he was supposed to help people. To serve his kingdom. To protect. To save.

Never had he dreamed that his purpose was to destroy.

“I don’t want to,” he whispered, gripping Ryoga. “I don’t want to kill.”

“Your spirit is admirable, Yuma Tsukumo,” Eliphas said. “I never thought your father’s ludicrous  _kattobing_  would take you this far from your purpose. And I never thought you would have the gall to flaunt your sins in front of a god.” Their eyes landed on Ryoga. “Nor did I think  _this_  abomination would be that sin. Ryoga Kamishiro, the creature that should not exist.”

“He’s not an abomination,” Yuma whispered, voice trembling.

“He is a half-Barian, half-Dragoon  _thing_ ,” Eliphas hissed. Their hands clenched. “He was supposed to die like the rest of the clan that took him in.”

“That was your plan, wasn’t it,” Ryoga said in a weak voice, his hand tightening on Yuma’s shoulder. “To get rid of me and Rio.” It wasn’t a question, and Yuma felt a shudder run through his body.

“You were supposed to die,” Eliphas repeated in an equally quiet voice. “It was part of the plan. Your mother was destined to break the seal to save you and your sister. The Barians were destined to invade and kill every Dragoon in the village. They were destined to conquer the Astral Kingdom.”

Every night of his life, until he was twenty-two years old and witnessed the true horrors of war, Yuma prayed to the gods for peace. Peace for his dead parents, peace for his grieving and broken family, peace for his kingdom, and peace for everyone he loved. After  _that_  night, over a year ago, when he failed in his despair to take his own life, he prayed – though with no real conviction – that the gods would watch over the kingdom and keep his king and queen and prince safe, that he would have something to live for again.

Time passed, and he received nothing for his weakening faith but more pain. Time passed, and he was helpless to save those who needed help.

He trusted the gods to have a plan to stop the Barians, when the gods were doing absolutely nothing to help those who were suffering for their sake.

What good was a savior who couldn’t save those he loved? What good was a savior who couldn’t save  _himself_?

 “You…” Yuma’s throat was dry. “You let them. You let them kill the Dragoons and the king and queen… you let them take over and hunt us… you _let_ them.”

“The Barians are strongest in their city of Baria, surrounded by their energy source,” Eliphas said without a trace of emotion. “They are weakest in the Astral Kingdom, where there is no crystal to sustain them. The only place the Seven Emperors can be destroyed is in the Astral Kingdom.”

“So it had to fall,” Ryoga said hollowly. “So the Barians would be there, which would make it easier to kill them.”

“Precisely.”

“And the pictographs, in the Shrine.” Tears leaked from Ryoga’s squeezed eyes. Yuma bit his lip to keep it from quivering at the sight of his resolute captain’s suffering. “Backup. To either become consumed with grief to the point where we lose the will to live or where we are susceptible to your control.”

“And it went according to plan, did it not?”

“Who is my father?” Ryoga’s voice shook.

“It is of no importance.”

“You—“ Had Ryoga’s arm not been around Yuma’s shoulder, Yuma might not have caught him in time for his attempted lunge at the god. “Let go of me, Yuma! Who is my father, you bastard?”

“It won’t do any good!” Tears flowed freely now as Yuma strained to hold his captain back. “Ryoga, stop, please!”

“I deserve to know!” Ryoga screamed, hand instinctively reaching for a sword that was not there. He gave up on that and slammed his free fist into the ground. “After every fucking thing you bastards put me and Rio through, I deserve to know something as simple as the name of the demon that cursed us with this hellish existence!  _Answer me_!”

Eliphas watched him, face unreadable. “You deserve nothing, because you _are_ nothing.”

And then they were gone.

Ryoga took in a shaky breath that turned into a hiccup as he leaned into Yuma. Neither spoke as Yuma wiped the tears from his onetime lover’s face. It was a dream, or a type of dream – a vision, a hallucination; Yuma didn’t know – but the nausea twisting Yuma’s insides felt so real. Ryoga’s tears felt real. What if this _was_  a type of reality? Was there any type of reality where he and Ryoga could have… whatever they had, without fear? Without guilt, or reservation, or a sense of duty that hung ominously above their heads like the executioner’s axe?

He loved Ryoga, and he had since their first meeting. Not in the same way as he now did, but he first felt a deep admiration for and trust in his captain. His heart was connected to the Dragoon’s as they sparred. As they became closer, Yuma cherished Ryoga’s friendship, and despite their vastly different temperaments, Yuma felt himself drawn to Ryoga in a way he had never felt for another – a way that Yuma couldn’t quite explain or even understand. But there were rules, and the captain’s culture was deeply ingrained in him, as was his duty. Part of Yuma had been glad. He had his own duties to tend to, and he couldn’t be in love with his commanding officer. He couldn’t love a man.

Things changed, though.

And Ryoga was hurting. He had been hurting when he took Yuma in his bed. Yuma had been there when Ryoga was at his most desperate. What if Yuma had been nothing but a convenient channel for Ryoga to lessen his grief? Had _he_  usedRyoga’s pain to fulfil his own selfish, twisted desires?

There was a quiet laugh beside him. He opened his eyes. Ryoga sat next to him on the Astral World’s lifeless imitation of the forest floor, gripping his hand.

“Look at the two of us.” He shook his head, a humorless smile on his face. “A demon and a fallen angel. Could there be a Fate more ironic than this?”

Yuma didn’t answer, because he couldn’t think of one.

“I’m sorry, Yuma.”

“What for?”

“Not being strong enough.” Ryoga exhaled slowly. His breathing had normalized. “Giving in.”

“Giving in… to what?”

Ryoga looked at their hands and adjusted his fingers so they laced with Yuma’s. It felt so comfortable, so natural. “To these assholes.” He shook his head and sighed. “I’m trapped in my own head, Yuma. There’s this thing, an emissary called Shark Drake. It has my body, controls me, and I gave into it. It’s… it’s horrifying. To listen to yourself give orders that go against everything you’ve ever believed in. To hear yourself…” He licked his lips. “I’ve tried to call out to you. I’ve wanted…”

Yuma waited a moment until the silence was too much. “Ryoga—“

“I wanted to tell you to  _kattobing_ ,” Ryoga interrupted in a rush. “And no. I don’t regret us. I could never regret you. They called you my greatest sin, but you’re…” He trailed off again, turning his head away. “After that… that night, I went to the room.”

The nausea returned in full force and Yuma pulled himself closer to Ryoga. “I understand, Ryoga, you don’t have to—“

“Shut up and let me finish,” Ryoga said shakily. “You don’t understand. Gods, Yuma, I offered myself to them to save my soul, to save Rio. I gave up my freedom. I gave you up. And as I knelt there and prepared to tell Shark Drake it could have my body, I… I thought of you. I thought of everything that makes you…  _you_. I almost couldn’t do it. And then it tore my body apart.” He shook his head frantically and bit back a sob. “All I wanted was to die. It would have been better to be dead than to listen to my own voice telling you how much of a mistake you were.”

“Ryoga, please stop,” Yuma whispered, and now it was his turn to bury his face in Ryoga’s shoulder. “My gods, Ryoga, please.” He’d thought he understood what it meant to be heartbroken. But this was the true definition; his heart literally felt as though it were being ripped in half. He wanted to throw up.

“I was going to tell you I loved you,” Ryoga mused, resting his chin on the top of Yuma’s head, and Yuma clenched Ryoga’s shirt. Why wouldn’t he stop? “Useless fucking words. What do they even mean?” He laughed bitterly. “I’m glad I didn’t. I knew how you felt, Yuma. I’ve known for ages. Because you  _showed_  me how you felt. And all I did was promise you everything I knew we could never have, betray you in every way, and deny you. I never did anything to show you that I felt the same for you as you did for me. I didn’t know  _how_ to. That’s why I don’t deserve you, Yuma. Because you’re the sun, and I am a frozen star, trapped in the heavens. Trapped in my own head.” He pried Yuma off, and Yuma didn’t even have the energy to reattach himself. Instead, he slumped over, shaking with silent tears. “You’re going to wake soon, Yuma. And when you do, promise that you’ll fight me. I’ll fight as long as I can, but we can’t let Shark Drake win. No matter what.”

“Ryoga—“

“No.” Ryoga knelt down and lifted Yuma’s chin with a soft hand, so different from the work-hardened skin Yuma remembered. “Don’t lose yourself, Yuma.” He brushed his lips over Yuma’s. “Or one of the last rays of light left on this godforsaken planet will be lost.”

—-

“He’s awake.”

Yuma blinked his eyes open. It wasn’t bright. The only light in the room came from a candle on a flat stone next to him. A pair of glistening green eyes watched him intently, and it took Yuma a bleary minute to register the hair, the fine silks, and the pink gemmed bracelet attached to the young man kneeling on a mat by the stack of blankets that made up Yuma’s bed.

“You—“ He struggled to sit up; his vision went almost completely black before he slumped back on his pillow.

“Please don’t try to move,” Mihael Arclight murmured. “You’ve taken a bad head injury.”

He had no idea where he was or how he got there. Things were… blurry. He remembered Ryoga. Before that, he’d been… walking through the forest with Reina and Anna and Charlie. What happened next…?

“You were attacked by bandits looking to collect the reward money for capturing you alive,” Mihael said as though reading Yuma’s mind. “You injured four of them before my brother and I arrived and you became distracted. One of them managed to knock you unconscious. You were out for hours.”

The sudden, splitting pain in his head confirmed that part of the story, at least. Yuma had never wanted a Healer so badly in his life. “What were you and your brother doing here in the first place?”

Mihael grimaced for a brief second. “Would you like some tea and bread?”

Yuma almost told him  _no, I’d like answers instead_ , but he hadn’t eaten in quite some time. Hot food would at least help with his queasy stomach, he hoped. “Okay.”

No sooner had Mihael left than Anna hurried into the room, throwing herself next to the pile of blankets Yuma rested upon. “Thank the gods you’re awake. We need to leave.”

“What…? Anna—“

“The Arclights,” Anna hissed. “They’re here. All of them. The oldest one says that the captain and the others are looking for us.”

The fact that the captain was trying to track Yuma down didn’t surprise him. What did surprise him was that all three Arclights were there. “The oldest brother. Lord Christopher. I need to talk to—“

“No,” Anna said as though chastising a small child, “we have to  _go_.”

“I can’t even sit up without wanting to vomit, Anna. I’m not going anywhere.”

She rubbed her hands over her face. “You were out for, like, half a day. The others are going to catch up if we have to wait around.”

“Believe me, I’d like to get out of here,” Yuma said darkly. “But it’s not physically possible. Tell me what happened.”

Anna took a deep breath and mouthed something indistinct at the ceiling before launching into her story. They were getting close to the Arena when a number of bandits surrounded them. Yuma and Reina held them off well enough, but then the two younger Arclight brothers – Thomas and Mihael – showed up, and Yuma had been distracted long enough for one of the bandits to hit him from behind with a heavy tree branch. (Yuma rubbed his head at this and winced.) The brothers subdued the bandits and brought Yuma here, to some tiny wooden shelter near the Arena where they could rest for the night. And then they were joined by their brother Christopher. Akari’s husband.

“You… you were scary,” Anna said in a quiet voice. “When you fought. There was no emotion on your face. It was like… like you weren’t even  _you_. I thought you were going to… you know.”

Chills covered Yuma’s body. “No, I don’t know.”

She looked away. “I thought you were going to kill them.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that.

“I would like to speak with him alone,” a deeper voice said from the doorway, and Yuma looked up to see a tall man with long, braided hair walking in, carrying a small plate with a chunk of bread and a cup of some steaming liquid. He was staring down at Anna through shadowed eyes.

Anna licked her lips and glanced at Yuma for a moment. “I’ll be… right outside.”

“Thank you,” Yuma whispered as she left and Christopher Arclight took her place by his side.

“Juniper tea,” he said, handing the mug to Yuma without looking at him.

There was probably no tea on the planet Yuma hated more than juniper tea. It burned his throat no matter how cool it was; the bitter taste of the juniper berry always reminded him forcibly of the one time he’d ever tried gin. Yuma took the mug anyway, and almost welcomed the burn on the way down his throat. It took the edge from the splitting agony in the back of his head. The bread was slightly stale, but Yuma hadn’t eaten in so long that it didn’t matter.

“Your sister will be relieved to know that you’re all right,” Chris murmured.

 _All right_  was a poor assessment. Yuma was far from  _all right_. But he swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, busying himself with another sip of tea to avoid talking.

“She wanted to keep you safe,” he went on in the same quiet voice. “She thought something terrible would happen if you joined the Guard.”

“She wasn’t wrong,” Yuma said harshly.

“You took lives.” Chris shifted on his knees. “But in so doing, you saved countless more.”

“I don’t care.”

Chris reached toward his waist and untied a scabbard hanging there. Yuma recognized it immediately. “They care.” He set Yuma’s sword next to Yuma’s hand on the pallet of blankets. “And somewhere in the depths of your sorrow, you do, too.”

Yuma shook his head, pulling his hand away from the weapon, but he didn’t speak. Maybe the problem wasn’t that he didn’t care. Maybe it was that he cared too much.

“Aren’t you working for them?” he whispered.

Chris touched the bracelet around his wrist, and as he did so, it emitted a soft blue light. “You couldn’t understand what it’s like to be helpless to protect your younger brothers. I did what I thought was the only thing I could to protect them.” His lips twitched in a wry smile. “In some ways, you’re my younger brother now, Yuma.”

“One older sibling was bad enough,” Yuma muttered, and Chris laughed quietly.

“I tried to protect them, Yuma. I failed. I failed them, and… and someone else I loved.”

Yuma knew all too well what it was like to fail someone he loved.

“Chris.”

Thomas Arclight stood in the doorway now, a wicked scar covering his right eye. He stared intently at his older brother.

“What is it?”

“Lieutenant Okudaira is here. He found something about the witch.”

Chris nodded and waved his brother away. Thomas cast a dark look in Yuma’s direction before disappearing.

“The witch?”

“Lord Ilya.” Chris rubbed his hands together absently, eyes narrowed in thought. “Together, the Seven Barian Emperors are unstoppable. But if we find individual weak points…”

“…you can defeat them,” Yuma finished. It made sense. “But I don’t want anything to do with it. I won’t kill again.”

Chris pushed himself to his feet, wincing as he shook his stiff leg. “Even to save lives?”

“No.” Yuma touched his father’s sword’s hilt. Death; that was the purpose of weapons. To kill. To destroy. This sword existed to kill Barians.

Fitting, that the sword fell into his hands.

“May I ask why?”

Killing the Seven Barian Emperors was the reason for his existence. But if he refused to kill, would it change his Fate? Would he find a new purpose for existing?

“You said you failed someone you love,” Yuma whispered. “I failed someone I love, too. And he’s… he’s suffering for it. But I made him a promise. I promised I would never lose myself. He says that my spirit is what makes me… me. It’s important that I keep that promise. And so I will never kill again.”


	59. Wavering Faith

The stained glass windows of the Tenjo library refracted the white light from the night’s full moon, casting beams of purple and blue and red across the floor. Durbe watched the slow-moving beams travel over tile and bookshelves and the desk at which he sat, but he didn’t move. Each minute that passed amplified his anxiety; each drip of wax from the steadily melting candle on the table felt as though it were hardening in his stomach.

Still, he did not move.

How long had it been? Ten hours? Fifteen? Maybe a day. Two. A week.  

There was a half-written letter in front of him, and he couldn’t even find amusement in the fact that he hadn’t managed to write a full letter in months. Too much in his mind, too much conflict; it was interfering with his ability to function the way a lord should. The others noticed. It was why he had lost Arclight. Endangered with demotion, anger over the fate of his family and friends, anxious about his plans coming to light… He wasn’t thinking right. He was making mistake after mistake, some costly, some _deadly_ , and it was only a matter of time now…

Sharp pain flared in his side, and he clenched his hand over it. It took him a moment before he realized that the panic and anguish threatening to overwhelm him were not entirely his own.

Nor was the pain his at all.

He shoved the chair back and stumbled toward the middle of the library, arriving in time to catch Mizael stumbling out of a portal, blood pouring from a wound in his side.

Mizael fell into Durbe’s chest; the force pulled Durbe to his knees. His hand quaked as he clawed at his scarf, trying to pull it off so he could stifle Mizael’s blood now pouring all over his clothes and the floor. He opened his mouth to call for a Healer, but it came out as a rasp.

“Durbe.”

Durbe pressed the scarf against Mizael’s injury. Mizael placed his hand over Durbe’s.

“Don’t be stupid,” Durbe whispered. The quivering in his chest was entirely his now, and he tried to calm himself. The last thing he wanted was for Mizael to be overwhelmed by Durbe’s weakness. But the pain was _there_ , and real. Mizael suffered, and he was getting weaker by the minute. Durbe couldn’t keep calm. “You’ve had… you’ve been worse…”

Mizael choked out a laugh. “Worse… no. More painful than this. But not worse. I’m—“

“No, you’re not.”

“Shut up for a minute.” Mizael closed his eyes and reached up, placing a bloodied hand on Durbe’s shoulder. “This doesn’t… change anything. I did what… what I could.” A tiny smile appeared on his human face. “I have a little left. I want you to—“

Durbe wanted to slap his general, to tell him _you’re being a fool; keep it for yourself_ but he just gripped Mizael tighter, pulled him closer, and—

“Durbe.”

“Mizael…”

“Durbe!”

“Don’t leave me, Mizael—“

The shock of cold water hitting his face jerked Durbe awake.

He was lying in bed, pillow and sheets damp from his sweat and tears and water – which, Durbe realized as he regained a sense of where he was, came from the wash bowl that Mizael was now holding – and he forced himself to take breaths as Mizael set the bowl back on the side table.

Mizael. Alive. Uninjured.

“Normally, I would ask what is ailing you,” the general said without looking at him, idly adjusting the bowl’s position, “but I have an idea I know what it is already, given this is becoming a recurring issue.”

Durbe shook the water out of his hair and dried his face with a corner of blanket. “Was the water necessary?”

“Given you were screaming my name so that God knows who could hear you,” Mizael said sharply, finally looking at him, “yes.”

“There was a full moon.” Durbe pulled the blankets aside and shifted to the edge of the bed, squeezing water out of his shirt. Mizael sat next to him. “And you were gone… and when you came back…”

Mizael pointed wordlessly toward the spacious window behind the bed, where the light of the half-moon reflected on the distant river. “The full moon is days away and, as you can see, I am perfectly fine. It was a dream, Durbe, just as it is every night.”

“It felt so—“

“It wasn’t.” Mizael stood and tossed Durbe’s cloak at him. “Ever since Alit and Gilag died, you’ve stopped thinking rationally. You had plans, they were going your way, but now you’re a wreck. Get rid of these human emotions that are chaining you down and do your fucking job.”

The words stung, but they were well-deserved. He turned the cloak over in his hands. Alit and Gilag… of course. “Vector killed them,” he said in a voice that sounded oddly calm, even to him. “Why? To get at me? He could have done a hundred different things to get at me. There was something else. They found something out that he didn’t want me to know.”

But what?

_He went to the Lords and begged them to help his village, to send aid to the sick and dying. Instead of their sympathies, the Lords had the audacity to blame him for the sickness in the village._

“How would he know that…?” Thirty years ago, Vector had just enlisted in the military. He wasn’t even ranked.

“Durbe?”

He held up a finger to silence Mizael. Vector hadn’t been ranked… so he probably hadn’t known until recently. And Vector had only become the ruler of Astral Kingdom recently…

“Kazuma Tsukumo.”

“What are—“

That was _it_ , it had to be; Kazuma Tsukumo had been killed in Sargasso, very near Durbe’s village, and allegedly by a Barian; perhaps he had discovered something. He had been a military man, so it wasn’t impossible for him to have kept a record of his discoveries in the Waste. And the most likely place for a military man’s record to be was—

“We need to go to the Astral Kingdom’s library.”

Mizael lifted an eyebrow in confusion. “Why?”

Durbe bit his lip as he started to pull off his soaked nightshirt. “Someone tried to kill you with a poison that killed my entire village three decades ago.” He tossed the shirt on the bed and pulled another from his wardrobe. “Vector knew about it. It’s a stretch, but Kazuma Tsukumo might have discovered something.”

“That’s not even a stretch, Durbe,” Mizael argued, crossing his arms as Durbe pulled the shirt over his head and fastened his cloak. “You’re grasping at nothing.”

Vector disappeared for weeks without a trace, and never told anyone where he was or what he was doing.

He killed Alit and Gilag.

He knew that the Tsukumo family somehow had ties to the Astral World.

He knew about Durbe’s past in excruciatingly intimate detail, detail that had, for a moment, led Durbe to doubt the only one on the planet who hadn’t betrayed him.

He knew how to find Prince Astral and his companions.

Was Durbe desperate? Yes, but that only meant he was willing to do anything to find any way he could to get ahead again.

“Vector has the greatest repository of knowledge on the continent at his disposal,” Durbe said, holding out his hand. “I’m going to find out what he’s up to if it kills me. Will you join me?”

Mizael stared down at him for a minute before letting out a quiet huff. “I made an oath that I would place my life before yours. Of course I will join you, and don’t insult me again.”

\---

Decaying wooden structures littered the forest, their stone foundations cracked and roofs caving in. The few trees that remained in this area were stripped of their bark, or decaying, or covered in a red fungus. Astral couldn’t think of a place more likely to house thieves and bandits and criminals than this forest, and sure enough, not too far from a place Droite and Gauche referred to as “the Arena,” the captain found one hiding in one of the dilapidated shelters.

He was a small man with large ears and even larger spectacles; dressed in unnecessarily frilly pastels, the man looked like a court entertainer and not the pirate he insisted he was. Ryoga pinned the man to a tree by his frayed blue coat with the tip of his lance.

“Wait.” Takashi reached out a hesitant hand and pushed at the lance. Astral had to admire the mage for his bravery at that moment; Ryoga had been nothing short of bloodthirsty since they had left the Shrine. “I know this man.”

“Says a lot about the company you keep, eh?”

Astral tried to ignore Black Mist. It was almost impossible, given that the creature was getting louder and more overpowering by the day.

_As your doubts and suspicions grow, so does my power. Before too long, I will be stronger than you._

Astral was terrified of this creature. He was terrified because he didn’t know what it was or why it was there; he didn’t know if this was a hallucination brought on by the traumas and torture he had suffered in recent months, or if it was _real_. It _was_ getting stronger. How long until it controlled him?

“Two murderers, a girl who can talk to animals, a fugitive mage, a vengeful captain, a deck boy who thinks he’s a pirate—“ Black Mist ticked them off on its fingers. “Oh, and a Healer. Someone has to be the outlier in this rabble of revolutionaries, I guess.”

“His name is Tokunosuke,” Takashi said, crossing his arms. He frowned deeply. “I haven’t seen you in years.”

“Yeah, nice to see you too,” Tokunosuke said in a high voice. “On the other hand, it would be nicer to talk to you without a weapon ripping holes in my coat—“

“Keep your mouth shut,” Ryoga snapped.

“Isn’t he adorable when he’s mad?” Black Mist stepped up to Ryoga and patted his face playfully. “He was more adorable before whatever happened after he got dirty with Yuma, though, huh?”

Astral clenched his teeth. “Let him go, Captain.”

“You know, what _did_ happen?” Black Mist stood in front of the captain, who lowered his weapon reluctantly as he gestured for Takashi to bring the pirate to him. “He did a total swing from loveably and tragically cynical to total asshole in, like, one night flat.”

“Have you seen a man named Yuma Tsukumo?” Astral said loudly, drowning out the shadow. “He would have been accompanied by a woman named Anna Kozuki, most likely.”

Tokunosuke’s face paled a shade. “Nope, never heard of th—augh!”

With one hand, Ryoga lifted him effortlessly by the collar of his shirt, pinning him to the tree again.

Black Mist laughed so hard at the sight of Tokunosuke dangling two feet off the ground that it had to sit down. “Can you believe this guy, Astral? He must be _pissed_ at Yuma.”

“I’ll give you five seconds to start talking,” the captain said in an undertone.

“I told you I don’t kn—“ The pirate cut off with a squeak as the captain shoved him harder into the tree. “Okay, okay, _gods_! Headed south!”

Ryoga loosened his grip. “South? Why?”

“I don’t know!” Tokunosuke wailed. “Look, I… they went with some barbarian woman who couldn’t speak properly and kept threatening to stab people and this old guy who smelled like a tavern outhouse. A few other people I didn’t know, too. They were heading toward the river. Said something about… about weapons… Barians… I don’t know what else; look, I’m just getting by. I don’t want any trouble.”

The captain contemplated the man for a moment before dropping him. He turned to the assassins and ignored Kotori, who shot him a scathing glare on her way to Tokunosuke. “You said the weapons aren’t far from here.”

“Sounds like he got to the smith first,” Gauche said darkly. “If he’s headed south, that means he’s probably heading for Heartland or Tenjo.”

“Why would Yuma want the weapons in the first place?” Black Mist said in a mocking voice. “Hmm! I thought he hated killing!”

“Why Heartland?” Droite said skeptically. “Does he even know anyone there?”

“The Barians took over there,” Tokunosuke said in a quiet voice. “It’s in chaos. The whole city is burning to the ground.”

“It’s true then,” Kotori murmured. Her hands tightened around her staff. “Kaito said that his kingdom was taken over, too.”

Black Mist sighed and leaned into Astral. “Now that sounds a bit suspicious. Why would Yuma betray you and go into a war zone with the weapons you almost died to help get the materials for?”

It was a good question, made worse by the fact that Astral didn’t know if it was a question his subconscious had come up with or if Black Mist was steadily gaining its own form. He wanted desperately to get rid of Black Mist, but every time he tried to meditate, he was interrupted by the thing.

“I’m not a _thing_ ,” it said in a mock tone of sadness. “But if you insist on doubting whether I’m real or if you’re suffering from trauma of some sort, think it through. Run it by me.”

Astral closed his eyes as the others argued about whether to follow Yuma to Heartland, or who he was with, or what his aims were. If he could focus on what he _knew,_ he might be able to figure out what to do next.

Rabelais had warned Astral not to get involved with Yuma. Why? Yuma had dedicated his life to the Astral Kingdom, like his father before him. He allowed himself to be tortured in Astral’s place. He refused to leave Astral behind. Ever since they had escaped from their home, Yuma had been there. He hadn’t left Astral’s side. He was loyal; he loved Astral.

He also loved Ryoga, but in a different way. And Black Mist was right; Yuma and Ryoga were both different after their shared experience. It was understandable, in many ways. Ryoga lost his sister, his race, his own identity. Yuma felt the guilt of his past. But why _then_? Ryoga expressed regret that night. And then he had tried to take his own life. He wasn’t the same afterward. He wasn’t remotely _Ryoga_ anymore.

And then there was Shingetsu. Yuma had known he was a Barian and didn’t say anything. He’d hidden the truth from Astral and the others. In a time where secrets could destroy the fragile threads binding them together, why would Yuma have kept something like that to himself? What happened between the two of them while Astral had been unconscious? The details were fuzzy, but something about the way Astral had been pulled back to the mortal realm from Astral World during that time had seemed… wrong. Something powerful had pulled him back. Something dark.

Had Yuma left with Barians? Had he completely betrayed their cause and thrown in his lot with _them_ just to escape the Fate he so disdained?

But what scared him most of all, at that moment, was that he was sure he could _feel_ Black Mist’s hand pat his shoulder.

\---

The revenant stared up at Kaito through curious silver eyes. Kaito couldn’t maintain eye contact and looked away. His chest hurt again, and the marking around his eye burned. Most of the time, he barely remembered it was there. An idle voice in the back of his mind reminded him that he was the only one to have a soul extraction that not only failed to craft a soul gem, but that gave him a permanent mark, to remind himself and everyone around him of his unfaithfulness to his own race. The crumpled paper in his hand explained many things he had never understood, while his heart burned with fury, a loss of purpose, and confusion.

 _Yes_ , the revenant said, stepping closer, and Kaito realized with a jolt that the spirit had died when he was around Haruto’s age. Even a Barian didn’t deserve to die at such a young age. _Does it repulse you, Kaito Tenjo?_

Repulse? Of course it did; Kaito loathed the idea of being less than human. He loathed more the idea that his ancestor – a Dragoon woman – abandoned her clan to become friendly with the Barians. “When I woke up this morning, I was a human who sold himself to the Barians. Now I’m not even that much.”

 _Mata Simin was born without the Gift,_ the revenant explained. _But more than that, she was caught with another woman outside the village boundaries._

A wave of nausea washed over Kaito. “She was exiled.”

 _Not before she stole her grandfather’s sacred sword._ The revenant lifted one small hand and pointed at the sword around Kaito’s waist. _She came here, to this village, and settled into a peaceful life with her lover._

The Dragon had told him that the village was a place where humans and Barians coexisted. He couldn’t imagine a human being welcomed into a village of Barians unless there was a damn good reason for it. “Her lover was a Barian.”

The revenant nodded absently. _When he found it missing, he sent Dragoons after her. They murdered her lover. But she escaped again and fled to the Tenjo Kingdom._

This time, the nausea overwhelmed him, and he doubled over to throw up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His stomach burned, his throat burned, his mouth tasted vile – but that was not as humiliating as the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

 _She wasn’t the only human here, you know._ The revenant waved his hand at the soul gems scattered across the dusty earth. _Humans don’t need these._

The gems – Kaito had almost forgotten about them. He’d had so much on his mind since being in Sargasso the last time that he hardly gave the soul gems much thought at all. Now that he was here again, the reminder that he’d tried to find out what happened here thirty years ago hit him abruptly. Chris had given him one piece of the missing puzzle, one more clue as to why this village existed the way it did.

_My wife’s father… was murdered, betrayed. In Sargasso._

_By Alasco._

But it was recently; hadn’t Yuma’s father died even after the massacre of the Dragoons? Alasco hadn’t even been a lord thirty years ago. He had been a no-name Barian. None of the Barian Emperors, as far as Kaito knew, held their positions that long ago.

“Unless the ritual wasn’t the reason for killing everyone in the village,” he whispered.

What was Alasco’s reasoning for being in the village twenty-four years after the village’s extinction? Why would he come to this desolate hell, why would Kazuma—

“Kazuma discovered the Barian-killing plant.” It made sense, seeing as Kazuma was the one who taught Anna how to make the weapons. “He told Alasco, but Alasco already knew because…”

The revenants stared at him, wispy faces void of expression. Even the child who seemed to speak for the others gazed at Kaito with empty silver eyes.

“Alasco already knew because Alasco killed everyone in this village thirty years ago.” He stared at the depleted soul gems. “Am I right?”

 _Do you want to make things right, Kaito Tenjo?_ The child gave him an unnervingly twisted grin, teeth bared.

“I asked if I was right,” Kaito snapped. If his sword was actually effective on these _things_ he would have dispatched them long ago; they gave him the chills now more than ever.

_We don’t know who killed us. We only know…_

Kaito was so distracted by the child, by the gems, by the mystery surrounding this godforsaken land that he didn’t realize he was being surrounded by the spirits on all sides until they started closing in on him. He drew his sword, knowing that, if these things wanted to kill him, they would, and there wasn’t a damn thing he would be able to do about it. Stories of people never returning from the wasteland always seemed like folk stories aimed at dissuading children from wandering into Barian territory, but Kaito never knew how real the threat was until he found himself _in_ it.

 _…one of the Seven Barian Emperors did_ this _._

They stopped.

“Did what?” Kaito’s voice was hoarse.

The boy pointed at the soul gems. _One of them, maybe more than one of them, has the power of God at their disposal._

He was right, then. It was a ritual. Killing all the villagers and using their soul gems – imprinted with the pain and anger and distress and fear of the villagers’ last moments – as a conduit for Don Thousand’s power… It meant that Alasco had killed them. Perhaps it was through Don Thousand’s powers that he became a lord in the first place. And then when Kazuma got too close to the truth, Alasco killed him, too. It made sense. It _fit_.

“Where do _I_ fit in this story?”

 _The soulless sinner and the broken warrior meet,_ the revenant whispered. _Together they stand in the Garden of the Gods—_

“Where is it? Where is the Garden of the Gods?”

The boy held out his hand. _Let us show you, Kaito Tenjo. The time is very near for the Dragon to awaken._


	60. Take It on the Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't given up on this story I'm really sorry for the two month wait.

Vector sat in a tree, legs dangling while he sang jovially. His short stint as a wandering bard had been a hellish experience – humans and their gullibility and angst and drama,  _ugh_ – but he had rather enjoyed making up songs laced with double meanings and thinly veiled secrets that not one of those damn fools seemed to comprehend.

_Seven sit as one upon their crystal thrones_  
Atop a mountain of blood.  
If one will fall, so will all  
But the one chosen by God.

He waited perhaps an hour, his songs becoming more nonsensical with each line – _does anything even rhyme with ‘silver’? –_ before the human he waited for finally arrived, gamboling noisily down the abandoned logging road.

Heartland had seen better days; his stubbly face was covered in scratches and dried blood, his once-fine attire was frayed and covered in unidentifiable stains, and he _reeked_ of swamp water and various bodily odors. He no longer held the cockiness he had as ruler of the wealthiest nation on the continent, either. Every soft crunch of foliage beneath a passing rodent’s feet caused him to flinch and half-turn toward the sound.  

“ _Mister_ Heartland!”

Vector dropped to the ground in front of the ex-king, pleased with the dramatic fashion in which his cloak fluttered gracefully behind him as he fell. Heartland gave a strangled yell and threw his hands in front of his face as though afraid this cloaked stranger falling from trees might hit him. Well, it _was_ tempting but Vector had other plans for the human.

“What a _coincidence_ to see you here,” Vector gushed, clapping his hands together. “My heart was just _burning_ to see you again!”

“Who a-are you?” Despite his best attempts at a haughty posture, with his shoulders pulled back stiffly and his chin lifted, Heartland’s voice shook.

Vector would have clicked his tongue in annoyance if he’d had one. These humans – especially the nobles – always pretended to be arrogantly confident, but take them from their comforts for a couple of weeks and they were reduced to jumpy little insects. “I,” he said, pulling the cowl away from his face in the most dramatic fashion he could muster, “am Vector!” He threw his arms out to the side. “Ta-da!”

“Oh gods—“

Heartland took a frantic step back, succeeding only in tripping over the hem of his filthy cloak. That didn’t stop him from trying to scramble away from the Barian lord with as much success as a cockroach flipped over on its back might have. _Fitting_.

“Mm, mm, mm.” Vector sighed loudly, bending next to the former ruler. “How the mighty have fallen.” He wrinkled his nose against the stench.

“Get away from me, you monster!” Heartland said shrilly, though he no longer struggled to distance himself from Vector.

“Monster?” Vector pouted. “How rude.” He pinched Heartland’s face between two clawed fingers. Heartland whimpered like a cowed dog. “I hear you called dearest Lord Ilykins a witch, too. You know, don’t you, that I also have” –he lit a small ball of fire in the palm of his hand and held it out to the whining ex-ruler– “that ability? What does that make me, Mr. Heartland?”

Heartland’s wide eyes focused on the ball of fire. “A… a freak.”

Vector rolled his eyes so hard he almost gave himself a headache. “I was _going_ to offer you a second chance, but if you think you’re above that—“

“No!”

_Humans_ , so predictable. Offer a small amount of power and some of them would murder even their own mothers. “Well,” Vector cooed, extinguishing the fire as he pulled a cloth from an inner pocket, “let’s get some of this grime off your face, mm?”

Heartland shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. Yet he didn’t back down again and only winced while Vector dabbed at his face with the cloth. It was… cute. He tried so hard to be a cocky ruler but he was one of the biggest cowards Vector had ever met.

_Even Yuma Tsukumo would make a better king than this dupe._ Vector stepped back, tucking the cloth away again. Yuma, at least, had faced death unflinchingly. He stood up to Durbe’s pitiful attempts at torture. Naïve fool though he was – gullible, soft-hearted – at least he wasn’t a coward.

Vector despised cowards.

But he didn’t have time to continue making a mess of Heartland City, fun though it had been to start fires at random throughout the city. Annoying insect though he was, Heartland might be able to restore some semblance of order to the kingdom and, in the process, undermine Ilya. And while the other lords were analyzing Ilya’s failures, Vector could continue his own plans in peace.

He reached into his robes again and removed a tightly wrapped bundle. “A present for you, Mister Heartland. One that will bring even darling Illy to her knees.”

“ _Lord_ Heartland.” The fool actually had the audacity to correct him. _Amazing._ Also incorrect. But amazing.

“You’re not a lord,” Vector said shortly. “You’re barely worthy of licking the dirt from my boots. But.” He tossed the package. “You can _earn_ your status back.”

The muscles in Heartland’s jaw worked furiously and Vector smiled back placidly. Finally Heartland tore his eyes away and opened the package.

“A knife?” Heartland furrowed his brow, turning the knife over in his hands. It was a simply crafted weapon, the blade a soft reddish color, with a sturdy steel hilt. Unadorned with crystals or rare stones, it hardly befit a man with an ego the size of Heartland’s. He glared up at Vector. “Is this a joke?”

Vector put his hands on his hips and lifted one eyebrow irately. “Do I look like a joker, Mister Heartland?”

“You said this would bring Ilya to her knees!”

“Well… yeah. No.” Vector frowned. “Actually it depends on where you stab her.” He mimed stabbing someone in the back and imagined the victim’s falling motion. “Yeah, she might not go on her knees if you get her from the front. She might kind of just… fall backward. If you want the groveling, get her from behind.” He rubbed an eye thoughtfully. “Might be pretty hard to get her from the front, anyway.”

Heartland looked up from the knife, narrowing his eyes. “Did you just… tell me to kill a Barian lord?”

“I didn’t _tell_ you to,” Vector said, holding up a finger. “I merely presented the means. It’s up to you whether you want to use it.”

The temptation would be too much for Heartland. Taking back control of his kingdom and killing the one responsible for his current predicament would seal the deal. And Heartland was definitely thinking about it, stroking the flat edge of the knife. He was doubtless trying to figure out what kind of trap this was. “And how is a knife going to be enough to kill a Barian?”

Vector leaned close enough to whisper dramatically while maintaining enough distance to keep out of Heartland’s reach. Vector wasn’t stupid. He knew perfectly well what that weapon was capable of, even on him. “Remember when you tried to have Lord Durbe assassinated with that poison?”

Heartland’s face turned red. “How… how dare you accuse me of—“

“Oh, shut it,” Vector snapped, waving a hand dismissively. “Literally everyone knows it was you. It isn’t as though you were subtle when you tried to poison Ilya and Durbe’s wine.”

The man’s lips pressed together but there was no further outbreak of anger.

Vector nodded at the weapon. “That is infused with the same poison that nearly killed General Mizael.”

Predictably, Heartland’s eyes darted between the knife and the Barian in front of him, but Vector was prepared when Heartland lunged forward. He vanished and reappeared behind Heartland, gripping his head neatly in a lock that would snap his neck if the human tried to move. He felt the whimpering vibrations of Heartland’s vocal cords.

“That’s your fourth failed assassination in as many months,” he whispered into Heartland’s ear. “Do you think you’re really up to killing Ilya?”

He loosened his grip just enough for Heartland to give a choked _yes._

Vector maintained one arm’s grip on Heartland but pulled his other hand away, dragging it slowly down Heartland’s back. “Prove it to me, Mister Heartland.”

“How?” Heartland choked.

“Are you willing to do anything?”

“Yes—“

“Then all you need to do is survive.”

“Wh—“

With a quiet giggle, Vector shoved his hand into Heartland’s back.

* * *

 

Ilya fell in a graceless heap of singed pink ribbons and lace on the bare stone floor of her quarters at Baria, cursing everything from Don Thousand Himself to her own decision to move her favorite rug to her room at Heartland.

_Fire is mine! Mine! Those filthy humans—_

“No,” she breathed, pulling herself to her knees. The real fault did not rest with the humans. She was supposed to be the ruler. Yet she couldn’t keep riots and murder and disgraceful destruction of property from happening in Heartland.

She wasn’t strong enough.

It wasn’t just that. There was something _wrong_ with the fires in Heartland. The fire had its own life, so different from the pitiful matchstick fires these humans wielded. It wasn’t natural.

She studied her reflection in the mirror above her wash basin. Her face was sooty, her normally curly hair blackened and uneven in places, her ringlets limp. More than that, the rough skin around her eyes had taken on tiny age cracks that she shouldn’t be acquiring for another thirty years at least.

“Damn it,” she whispered, tracing a shaking finger over them. “ _Damn it._ ”

She splashed cold water on her face in an attempt to wash the soot from her skin, succeeding only in smearing it more. With another mumbled curse, she abandoned the effort and peered down at her robes. They were filthy, singed, covered in holes, and smelled of burned fish. Fitting; the last fire she’d attempted to put out before retreating back to the palace at Heartland had been near the market. Perhaps changing into something presentable, or taking a bath, or resting would be better than leaving the room looking like she had reverted into her young years.

_Fifteen years old with the eyes of an elder_ , she thought bitterly before leaving her room.

She didn’t really have a plan on where to go, only that she wanted to avoid servants who would throw themselves at her feet and beg her to let them clean her; without thinking, she ended up in front of the door to Polara’s sitting room.

_If anyone has advice on dealing with this kind of thing,_ Ilya reasoned as she knocked, _it’s Polara._

“Enter,” a voice said with a barely concealed sigh, and Ilya pushed it open.

Polara sat in front of the flickering fire, a glass of amber liquid in one hand and an over-creased piece of paper in the other. She rarely drank, and Ilya watched her pensively for a moment before settling in the chair across from her, studying the shadowed human face of the Barian leader. Ilya’s hands convulsed as she recognized the letter Polara’s eyes were fixed upon; it was the one that had almost cost Ilya her position.

“What is it?” Polara leaned her head against the side of the chair. She was definitely exhausted; the liner around her eyes was smudged, as though the lord had forgotten she was wearing it before rubbing her eyes, and her dark green lipstick was cracked where her lips were dry and bloody. Ilya watched Polara’s front teeth tug at the loose skin on her lips before Polara lifted the glass to them and drained it.

Too many things were going wrong. Polara was the inflexible leader, the keystone of the Empire. She couldn’t afford to show signs of weakness. Especially not now.

“It’s becoming increasingly dangerous to stay in Heartland,” Ilya murmured. She could have used a glass or two of a nice stiff drink herself. Polara didn’t offer one, so she slumped in her chair instead. “A group of rebels made it through the front doors this morning.”

Polara closed her eyes and mouthed a prayer before reaching for the bottle of wine at the end table next to her. It was nearly empty. “How?”

“I don’t know.” Ilya stared into the fire. After watching the city burn around her, the beauty of her cherished element was marred somewhat. “The blockade isn’t working. They’re getting through. Some of the fires—“ She clenched her teeth. It galled her to admit it. “Some of them I can’t control.”

Sober, Polara would have caught onto the meaning of this sentence instantly. It took the inebriated Polara almost ten seconds. “They have a mage?”

“Looks like it.” Ilya rubbed her temples with one hand. “But I don’t understand how. A few escaped Vector’s purge of Astral Kingdom. Pherka looked into it and said none of the mages that are at large currently can wield fire. Earth, a few water, but no fire. It doesn’t make _sense_.”

“Might be an unregistered mage.” Polara contemplated the bottle before deciding against it. “Not everyone with magic reports it to the local authorities. Some might have registered under a different name, or managed to mask their powers from the regulations committees.” She arched a thin eyebrow at Ilya.

Ilya’s nails dug into the side of the chair. “You know there was no need for me to register. Everyone knew who I was. _What_ I was.” Not only that, but Polara knew better than anyone what Ilya was capable of. She, after all, had been the one to free Ilya from her fate as a sideshow attraction.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Polara muttered. “How are they getting the upper hand? Why are they successfully fighting back _now_? What changed?”

The paper in Polara’s hand crumpled slightly. The letter had shaken the solid foundation of the Seven Barian Emperors; Polara dwelt on it too much. She was always difficult to read. Did she feel betrayed? Angry? Suspicious? Or did she, like a few of the others, believe that the letter had been an elaborate attempt at causing divisions in the Barian leadership?

_We know that you sacrificed an entire village of your own people, so many years ago, and we know that at least one among you murdered another lord to take his place. We are not ignorant of your sins._

Genocide. Arson. Her crimes, and Durbe’s, were specifically alluded to in the paper. _And you will reap what you have sown._ Heartland City was burning to the ground. Was she, in fact, now reaping the consequences of her past actions? And what of Durbe? He had been the one to discover the letter. It was convenient timing, too; just when he had been about to lose everything, he managed to draw attention away from himself.

And God, did he have so many reasons to push the attention away from himself.

“Ilya… have you noticed suspicious behavior among the other lords?”

Ilya snorted softly. It was an unattractive sound, but she couldn’t help it. “Suspicious behavior? You mean, aside from Alasco dictating his will over Arclight despite the will of the council? Vector vanishing for weeks and refusing to tell us where he was or what he was doing? Vector refusing to come to meetings, period? Durbe—“

_–and Mizael?_

Polara often reminded the other lords to keep their mouths shut about things they had no concrete evidence for. And Ilya had never witnessed any scandalous behavior between the two of them. But she knew; the blood on their lips, the furtive conversations, the late nights in each other’s company, the way Durbe defended all of Mizael’s questionable actions and Mizael followed Durbe unhesitatingly. And Ilya had heard of the jokes targeting the pair in their young military recruitment days, though she had not been there herself to hear them. Even if their relationship was not physical – few Barians desired a sexual relationship; it was too _human_ – they had a _bond_.

Were the jokes and rumors true? _Had_ they bound their souls?

“Ilya?”

She could voice this to Polara, and be dismissed. Or Polara could believe her and look into it further. It would ruin Durbe’s standing in the council. It would ruin Durbe’s tenuous alliance with Ilya. It would focus the negative attention back onto Durbe, and away from the fact that Ilya had all but let Heartland City fall to rabble-rousers and criminals.

It would also inevitably end in General Mizael’s execution. If anything would destroy Durbe, it would be losing him.

Ilya kept her face blank. “Durbe has not been… himself lately. He’s seemed distracted, sad, and that’s what caused him to lose control over the Arclights. I think the pain of his generals’ deaths still weighs on his heart.”

Not for the first time, Ilya felt pity for Mizael. She sympathized with him. Before Durbe, he’d been ostracized and mocked by everyone around him, branded painfully and humiliatingly in front of the entire military; offering his broken body and soul in the service of the Barian Kingdom rather than live as a slave deep in the mines, fated to an early death as a nobody, an unwanted.

Maybe he was so afraid of dying as a broken creature that he would do anything, even serve the military that scorned and despised him, to have even a sliver of a chance at completeness.

Ilya had long since dismissed any desire for a soul exchange. She had no interest in forming any bonds at all. Humans and Barians alike were manipulative, untrustworthy, and self-serving. Unlike Mizael, her parents had not initially rejected her. Her soul birth was a complete one. It was only once she exhibited control over fire that they feared her.

Fear was an interesting motivator. Fear drove her parents to try to kill her; fear from the betrayal drove her to engulf her own parents in flames. Fear of the fire-wielding monster ended up with her in a cage. Fear of starving moved her to do as she was commanded.

_Do a trick, you witch._

It was against the law for an emperor to have any kind of relationship with a military officer, but there were worse crimes Durbe and Mizael could commit than love. Of course, if Durbe _was_ trying to undermine the other emperors somehow, Mizael would follow him without hesitation.

But she couldn’t prove Durbe’s disloyalty, and therefore couldn’t prove Mizael’s.

“…allowed himself to get so attached to them,” Polara was saying, and Ilya’s attention snapped back to the present. “And he’s far too attached to Mizael.”

“Mm.”

Polara slumped in her chair, pressing a hand to the horizontal green marks on her own face, so different from Mizael’s red ones. These were not a sign of inferiority; they were a sign of her status as the leader of the highest Barian council. “If I may be open with you, I have my doubts about Alasco, Vector, and Koche. All three obtained their positions after their predecessors died… one from a sudden fever, one from falling from a high palace window inside a locked and warded room, and one in a seemingly inconsequential battle.”

Ilya had known of the lord Koche replaced having died in battle, but not of the other two. One may have been a suicide, or an accident. As for the first, a sudden fever sounded suspiciously like the poison that had nearly killed Mizael. Alasco had replaced that lord, and it wasn’t exactly a secret that he hated both Mizael and Durbe.

_A connection?_

Maybe this impromptu meeting hadn’t been a total waste after all.

“I wouldn’t know,” Ilya said quietly, “seeing as I was juggling torches in Tenjo when the others became Lords.”

“Of course. My apologies.” Polara pulled herself to the edge of her seat. “I think I’m going to get some rest, if you don’t mind.” She glanced at Ilya. “You look like you need some rest too.”

“Yes, I should probably do so.” Ilya followed Polara to the door and bade her goodnight.

Ilya was halfway down the hall to her room when she stopped.

_Alasco, Vector, and Koche. All three obtained their positions after their predecessors died… a fever, a fall, and a death in battle._

Coincidental, or convenient?

She hesitated. If they had become lords despite the suspicions surrounding their predecessors’ deaths, was it really her place to question it?

_If even one of them killed a lord, I want to know. I_ need _to know._

She changed directions and headed down to the archives.

* * *

 

For such a large group, they moved with remarkably little noise.

Chris led the way, a few dozen yards in front, with Mihael to the side of the four fugitives, and Thomas hanging at the rear. They had moved into an open buffer zone between the Galaxy River and the safety of the forest, and from here they were very near – and very exposed to – the docks. Thomas hated it; he pulled at the hood of his cloak to keep the salty winds from blowing it back.

Every so often, Tsukumo would whisper something to the merchant woman before glancing back at Thomas. The memory of their last encounter was not lost on either of them. Tsukumo had gotten so close to killing Mihael, stopping only out of some weak softness from destroying the man trying to take his prince from him.

And now Tsukumo was here in the forest, accompanied by three strangers instead of his prince. If Chris was right, Tsukumo was not only abandoning his prince, but betraying him.

_“He won’t take a life,” Chris said, staring into his tea. “Even if it’s to save another, I don’t think he would be able to do it.”_

_Thomas snorted. “He’s weak. What does he hope to accomplish by whatever he’s doing? What kind of plan does he have?”_

_“I don’t think he has a plan, Thomas.” Chris took a sip._

_“Oh! Wonderful.” Thomas pushed his chair back and traced a finger over his scar. “How does that saying go? The blind leading the blind?”_

_Chris closed his eyes and set the cup on the table. “I told Akari I would—“_

_“—lead your brothers to their deaths following the most wanted man in the Barian Empire straight into a Barian stronghold?”_

Chris hadn’t answered then. And by the gods, Thomas would not die for the sake of a deserter with foolish dreams of stopping the Barian Emperors without bloodshed. It was impossible. Surely Tsukumo knew that.

And of the others… what did they know about Tsukumo’s plans? The merchant insisted she had been in the dark ever since her foolish decision to follow Ryoga Kamishiro for the weapon he stole from her. The filthy gambler and the foul-mouthed backwoods woman followed without vocal complaint, though the gambler muttered prayers every so often before taking a swig from his flask.

They must be convinced that he has a plan, Thomas reasoned. Lunatics, all of them. If his only plan was to talk the Barian Emperors into surrender, they were all going to die very quickly.

The port was guarded by at least three dozen Barian soldiers checking manifestos and shipping crates. Perhaps fifteen more archers waited atop short wooden watchtowers, evenly spaced out along the river, and there were remarkably few humans. Tsukumo’s eyes swept over the scene as they moved closer, spreading out into three pre-assigned groups to attract less attention. Thomas was stuck with Tsukumo and the merchant, in the case of the former trying anything contrary to the plan.

It was a simple plan. Sneak the four aboard the next ferry to Heartland.

It was also an incredibly stupid plan where everything would go wrong.

Chris walked up to the nearest guard and introduced himself and Mihael, drawing the guard’s attention toward the river instead of the wooden boardwalk. It was a strategic path for the group to pass through without attracting a well-placed arrow from above, as the archer atop the watchtower would have had to bend over the side to see the pair walking behind it. Thomas kept a safe enough distance from the merchant and Tsukumo to avoid anyone possibly linking them together should their identities be revealed, and he realized too late that this was a mistake. As Thomas turned his head to see a second guard stopping the gambler and the violent woman, he saw it.

The powder trail was fine, and so much so that Thomas mistook it for dirt until he saw the tiny pouch sitting next to the ladder, and the tiny flame steadily flowing along the trail toward the powder bag.

Thomas suspected he now knew who had been responsible for the powder explosion in the gardens before Chris and Akari’s wedding.

“You piece of shit,” he muttered as Tsukumo turned his head and mouthed _I’m sorry_ before bending over with Anna and clapping his hands to his ears.

The explosion, from this close, not only knocked Thomas off his feet, but was deafening; Thomas couldn’t hear his own coughs as he crawled blindly through the smoke. He couldn’t hear the Barians yelling orders in the chaos that none of the others would be able to hear for a few minutes.

He reached out a hand in the direction he thought the two were headed – north? – and focused his energy into his gem, willing it to catch Tsukumo’s aura, willing it to stop the man where he ran, to bring him back. The tingle in his fingers indicated his success, and for a moment he thought he had done it.

But the feeling was severed just as quickly, and Thomas let out a silent yell of frustration.

There was no _reason_ for them to be heading north. Heartland was just across the river, within sight – once all the smoke had cleared, at least – and yet…

Two pairs of hands grabbed either arm and hauled him to his feet; he heard muffled voices through the ringing in his ears and turned toward his brothers.

“…did they g—“

“I don’t know!” Thomas yelled, ripping free. The haze had lifted enough to see Barians running toward the tower that, Thomas now noticed, had collapsed. The archer was alive but injured, having landed on his back on top of the rubble. “I don’t know. I don’t even know where they’re thinking of going.”

Running at a full sprint in this time would mean that Tsukumo and the merchant might be getting close to the trees again. More than that, the guard that had stopped the other two was lying dead on the ground, a knife wound in its stomach. There was no telling how far they could have gotten. One thing was sure – there would be no boats departing for Heartland City tonight.

“What a fucking disaster,” Thomas hissed, rubbing at his ears. “What now?”

Chris stared across the river, toward the smoggy city. “We see if the Barians need our help cleaning up,” he said quietly, “and then we go home.”


	61. Ilya

**Chapter Sixty-one: Ilya**

Without a proper caretaker, the archives housed inside the palace at Baria had fallen into disrepair. The lock was so rusted that Ilya’s key could not open it; in frustration she melted the lock, gave the stuck door a slight shove with her shoulder, and entered. Her first step caused a cloud of dust to fly into her nose and mouth, sending her into a fit of coughs.

_Damn these weak human bodies._

With one hand over her face to keep the dust out of her mouth, she fumbled with the necklace tucked under her robes and focused on the transformation back into the body that would keep out the worst of the dust. She squeezed her eyes shut against the constriction in her chest and the vicelike squeezing of her face as her lips melded together and her jaw fused into her skull. It was not a pleasant experience – her rapidly thickening skin itched uncomfortably – but she was now much better equipped to handle the dark, dusty space.

_Perhaps we should have considered having a smith craft a new lock for this door,_ she mused, _or supervised a monthly cleaning,_ but then, it wasn’t a major concern – open only to the Seven Emperors and a handful of politically prominent figures, it had limited accessibility. Besides, there was a great library in the city that contained the most books and scrolls and letters on the continent, second only to the library at Astral. If any of the lords needed to consult a public treatise or read a history, they would go there. From the amount of dust in the air, it had been some time since anyone had even opened the door into this room.

That suited her just fine. The archives were limited in material and accessibility, but the materials housed there were one of a kind.

She lifted a hand to light the candles but thought better of it. The dust was so thick that it might ignite if she tried; with a scowl, she settled for a floating orb of heatless red light. It illuminated a small wooden desk, a backless chair, and six tall, narrow cases of documents. Hardly an impressive archives, she decided, standing on her tiptoes to read the labels on the top shelves. The labels were not written in the common language, but in an ancient Barian dialect with which Ilya was hardly familiar.

“You have to be kidding me,” she muttered, peering around at the other labels. They were all the same. “Who is responsible for this?”

It was going to take her more time to decipher the cataloguing system than just reading the documents to figure it out on her own, so she reached up again and felt around blindly on the top shelf, straining for her fingers to catch a corner of a scroll or a paper or _something_ , all the while cursing the fact that she was so damned _short_. She thought about pulling over the chair and using it to give her another foot of height, but one leg seemed to have been chewed entirely through – rats, no doubt – and it didn’t look level enough to support her safely.

“Pherka wouldn’t be having this problem,” she grunted, abandoning her efforts on the high shelf in favor of a thick book from a lower one. It must be nice for the taller Barians to function properly in everyday tasks such as pulling a book from the top shelf.

She flipped through the book; familiar names popped out at her, along with rough sketches and neatly annotated statistics, written in a checklist format. The last page was of a Barian female named Isida, whose place of birth was a village Ilya had never heard of alongside a river Ilya was sure didn’t exist by that name anymore.

It was followed by a brief biography and a short excerpt on how Isida was murdered six years into her reign as leader of the Seven Barian Emperors, and a reference note for further reading on the evidence collected to indict a military leader of murder and treason.

Ilya closed the book and placed it back on the shelf; they were biographies, then. She rifled through the next one on the shelf, and the next. Each was a collection of biographies on the various reigns of the Barian lords, their rise and fall, successes and triumphs, as well as how each of them died.

Very few lords died of natural causes, it seemed.

After about seven volumes, she came across the one she needed. The names inside were far more familiar to her – Sai, Liam, Mintaka, Rion. Sai was Alasco’s predecessor, Liam was Vector’s, Mintaka was Ilya’s own, and Rion was the militaristic lord whose death in battle paved the way for Koche’s rise to power.

Ilya carried the book over to the table and peered down at each excerpt. She had never met Mintaka, and from the looks of her preference for sending criminals and “undesirables” into the deepest mines at the base of the mountain, it was probably a good thing. Rion’s death was in a minor skirmish along the border of Astral and Arclight Kingdoms, likely at the hands of Dragoons. It seemed reasonable enough, and there was no note of any further investigation into his death.

That left Sai and Liam. Sai’s was easily the most suspicious death; he had died of a sudden fever which claimed his life within two days. The investigation yielded no conclusive reasoning behind the lord’s death, only that it appeared something that might have been a shallow cut on his forearm had somehow turned into a severe infection.

_Extremely high body temperatures and unconsciousness… unresponsive to usual potions… likely boiled his body from the inside… no discernable source._

It sounded unpleasantly familiar.

Liam had been alone in his locked quarters when there seemed to be a struggle. Servants in the hallway heard him screaming incoherently while knocking over a side table and two chairs, followed by the shattering of glass. He alone had the key to his room, there was no one inside when the other lords broke the door down, and the key was found on his body on the ground below his window, inside his robes. All the lords’ rooms were warded to keep unwanted portals from opening inside them. 

_Apparent suicide._

Ilya left the book on the table and scanned the shelves, searching for the schematics of the palace layout. She found them on a bottom shelf, where they had been chewed through by rats and insects and were covered in layers of dust, but the one she needed was intact enough to read.

The lords’ west-facing chambers were, like the rest of the palace, carved into the mountain, overlooking the Sargasso Waste and the kingdoms beyond. Each chamber was connected to a balcony of some sort, which could only be reached through a glass door, and each balcony was situated about fifty feet from the spacious flat plateau that served as a sort of garden courtyard. If Liam had intended to commit suicide by jumping off the balcony, why did he scream? Why didn’t he open the glass door instead of crashing through it?

“This doesn’t make sense,” she murmured. There was no way for anyone to get into the room to push Liam to his death; furthermore, it was in the midmorning, when the halls were filled with servants. All of them swore under every oath the other lords could think of that no one had gone near the door to his room.

_Body found by General Vector and his bodyguard in the garden below._

She clenched her fists so tightly her nails drew blood. There was something missing; Vector profited most immediately from Liam’s death, but there was no physical way for him to have pushed the lord from fifty feet below. Most of all, there was no solid evidence Liam had been pushed at all.

Ilya thumbed through the back of the volume, searching for Vector’s biography, hoping that it might provide _some_ clue to this mystery.

Instead, the pages fell upon her own.

_Fire mage… parents deceased._

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

Her first memory was setting her mother’s spinning wheel on fire. She’d been beaten for that, a child no more than three years old. It was an accident; Ilya never intended to destroy her mother’s only means of work. She didn’t even know what she was doing; her insides were so _hot_ , her body was going to burst—

She was a _child_!

She was a child… when she murdered her parents.

There were only so many times she could tolerate being called a monster, a witch, a _shameful_ _abomination_ by her own parents. There were only so many beatings she could endure before it was finally too much.

_Ran from her destroyed home at the age of twelve and nearly died in the desert before she was found by a traveling caravan._

They took her soul gem, forced her into a human body; in the most agonizing experience of her life, her skin melted off in pale chunks, her face ripped apart, and her bones softened like butter. Her clothes were taken, replaced by filthy, colorless rags, and under the threat of never receiving her soul gem back, she performed for them in a cage while they laughed.

It was only the first time she would have to listen to humans laughing at her.

She never spoke, even to ask for her soul gem. If she spoke back, they would never return it, and she would be trapped in this godforsaken body for the rest of her life. So she juggled fire, learned how to make silent puppet shows with it, and occasionally engulfed her body in flames for the raucous entertainment of humans and Barians both; though her intent in doing so was to die, she never felt the searing pain she desired. The flames did nothing more than sear the rags she wore.

She remained silent, and endured the name-calling, the jeers, the men spitting on her or throwing water on her – _the witch looks thirsty, doesn’t it?_ – and the near starvation, from being fed only meager portions of tasteless grains once a day.

Most of all, she endured the crippling loneliness.

Polara saved her life, she reflected, even if it was an accident that the lord stumbled upon the caravan during a sideshow that Ilya was too exhausted to perform for.

_I heard there was a witch at the show,_ Polara had said softly, _but you’re not a human at all, are you?_

Within a few hours of meeting the Barian lord, Ilya was free and reunited with her soul gem.

Her hands clenched the sides of the book so tightly that she dug small holes into the cover. Her body shook, though she didn’t know if it was from fear or anger.

_Who wrote this?_

She debated for a minute whether to remove the page and burn it before she saw the tidy script at the bottom of the page, written in a different hand and with a different pen than the rest of the page.

_Cause of death: drowning._

It was suddenly difficult to draw breath. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the single, tiny word.

True, she had never learned to swim, but she spent as little time as possible even near water. Was this someone’s idea of a sick joke?

_But you are the ruler of Heartland City, dear Ilya,_ a voice in her mind reminded her. _The largest port city on the largest river on the continent._

Ilya was never a fatalist. She didn’t believe in fortune telling or predestination or any of that nonsense. Someone was planning on murdering her. They wrote this here to…

_Why?_

To scare her? To make fun of her? Why not just kill her and be done with it? No one could even have known she was going to be coming to the archives, let alone reading this exact book. She hadn’t known it _herself_ until her talk with Polara. It was a spur of the moment decision.

“Think through this logically,” she muttered. “Who has access to the archives?”

She left the book on the desk and scanned the shelves for the most recent census, conducted sometime immediately following Durbe’s inauguration.  Only Barians with political influence could access this room. She needed a list of the generals, the court scribes, aide-de-camps, _anyone_ who might be able to help her narrow the culprit down.

She found the census lying under a dusty, misplaced book titled _Plants of Sargasso_ and hurried back to the desk, digging in her pockets for a scrap of paper to make notes on. She found a somewhat singed letter from Pherka crumpled up in one of the inner pockets. It would do.

There were seven generals, including General Mizael, two aide-de-camps, and a single court scribe granted access to the archives. That was ten; certainly a manageable number, then—

Not just ten. “Sixteen.”

She set the census aside and looked down at the book. It was impossible, wasn’t it? That one of the other lords could be plotting to murder her…

One by one, she turned the pages of the book back until she reached Polara’s page.

_Cause of death: Suicide._

Her trembling fingers turned the page.

_Koche. Blank_.

Alasco. _Blank_.

Vector. _Blank_.

Pherka. _Poisoned_.

Durbe. _Executed_.

She lowered herself to the rickety stool. Her legs nearly gave out halfway there, so she grabbed blindly at a shelf to steady them.

“What is this?” she said breathlessly. Her mind whirled. She’d come here to figure out which of the lords had murdered their predecessors, and instead she had stumbled into… what? A murder plot? A warning, a threat?

It could be a trap. Something to make her paranoid, suspicious, susceptible. Someone murdered Sai the same way General Mizael had almost died. Liam's death had too many things wrong to have been a suicide. Someone thought to include in this book how she was to die. It had to be premeditated, and it had to be a long time coming. 

She pulled her shaking hand away from the shelf and rested it on the book, open still to Durbe’s short biography. It hurt to breathe; she was dizzy. She should show this to Polara. Surely Polara, at least, would never... 

“No.” She tried turning Durbe’s page back to her own but ended up tearing it nearly in half instead. It took her nearly three minutes to successfully remove her page from the book and shove the crumpled papers in her pocket.

And she caught the remainder of the book on fire.

If there was anything she could take away from her sudden childhood memories, Ilya mused as the fire licked at her hand like a warm breath of air, it was that she could never trust anyone.


	62. A Book of Revelation

They spent hours poring over military records, scanning each page for even a mention of the Sargasso Waste. Much of it was mundane: inventories, rosters, daily drills. Astral was a kingdom of peace, and the small army was a reflection of that.

It was no wonder the entire kingdom had fallen so quickly.

Finally, success.

Mizael placed a journal in front of Durbe. “Kazuma Tsukumo’s” was all he said before returning to another stack of documents.

From the date of the first entry, some twelve years ago, Durbe could tell that Kazuma Tsukumo did not have what he needed. But he read, because he had nothing else to go on but this unreliable human thread.

Durbe read of Kazuma’s mundane training drills, of his longing to be freed from customs duty, of his trip to Arclight with his son one harvest year.

_Yuma has a pure heart and cares about everyone else more than he does about himself; may he never be corrupted by this gods-forsaken war, because he will put his own happiness behind the needs of others._

A pity, Durbe thought to himself, that Kazuma’s greatest fear for his son would come to pass. He was about to skip a few pages of remonstrating about his wife and woefully single daughter – another of life’s greatest ironies – when he saw a short passage.

_Met with Mr. Kozuki. Has a hot-tempered daughter but I think she might be in love with Yuma. He thinks he knows a way to synthesize Baria crystal and make it potent to Barians. Wants to know if I am aware of any kind of poison that affects Barians. I think Alasco once mentioned some kind of plant that killed off an entire village twenty years ago. I’ll see if he can tell me about it._

Durbe dropped the book.

For a moment, he didn’t know how he was still on his feet. His legs had no feeling in them; he could barely see. He became aware of Mizael’s arms around his waist, of Mizael leading him to a chair, which Durbe collapsed into.

Alasco. Alasco knew that it was a plant that killed the village. He knew it wasn’t a disease, though no one else should have known.

Alasco killed them.

Alasco murdered his village.

“Oh my God… my God…”

“Durbe, what is it?”

“Alasco,” Durbe choked out. “My God, Mizael, Alasco did it.”

Mizael glanced at the journal on the ground. “Are you…”

“He knew about the… the plant. He knew twelve years ago.”

“Durbe.” Mizael knelt next to him. “Wouldn’t Tsukumo have realized… Alasco was a lord?”

Durbe shook his head. “Do you remember all the names of the Barian lords fifteen years ago, Mizael? Most _Barians_ didn’t even know any of the lords. They were distant and uncaring and that’s why—“

Mizael picked up the book and pressed it back into Durbe’s hands. “Find out what Tsukumo knew about Alasco. If it’s true, you can use it against him.”

“Use what against him?” Durbe whispered. “Genocide? That isn’t exclusive to him, Mizael. What’s worse is that I couldn’t even do it myself. I made _you_ do it.”

_How_ am _I different from Alasco and Vector?_ he asked himself for the hundredth time since seeing his brother’s troubled specter in Sargasso. Perhaps he _was_ different; perhaps he was the worst of the lords. At least they didn’t force others to dirty their hands for them.

Mizael didn’t look at him. His eyes rested on a painting of Prince Astral and his parents that had not been removed during the renovation process, doubtless another of Vector’s prized trophies of conquest.

Time after time, Mizael threw away his principles and his honor, killing in cold blood for the sake of the Barian Empire. It was never Durbe’s own hand that killed dozens, hundreds of innocent people. It was always at Durbe’s request – the Dragoon village, Arclight, the Astral Kingdom – that Mizael killed. The guilt would never go away, for either of them.

During the invasion of the Astral Kingdom, Durbe left Mizael with simple orders. _Do as Vector says._ So Mizael did. But even his willingness to follow Durbe’s orders could reach its limit.

 “I killed the queen,” Mizael said quietly, “so that Vector would not have her powers.” He looked back at Durbe and brushed his fingertips against the back of Durbe’s shaking hand. “That was my sole act of mercy in this campaign. What Alasco did to your people was not mercy. Alasco has never known mercy. Alasco could never understand the weight in your heart from the guilt of every decision you’ve ever made.” Mizael took the book from Durbe’s fingers and set it on the table. “This was the reason you went down this path, Durbe. To find out who did this to your family. To end the injustices of the Barian Emperors. To unite the world.”

It was true. Durbe had spent his entire life searching for the truth of what happened in Sargasso. He needed to know who was responsible so he could bring justice to his brother, his mothers, his friends and community.  

But now that he knew, it didn’t seem as simple anymore. Because in his desire to make sure that the Barian Emperors were brought down, he became worse than any of them.

“I saw him almost daily, Mizael,” he whispered. “I had to listen to him… _taunt_ me. For ten years I had to look into the face of the man who took everything from me, and I never even...” He closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead. “I feel so helpless, Mizael. Now that I know Alasco is behind it, I don’t know what to do.”

Had Mizael attempted to comfort him, Durbe would have broken down there in the library. Certainly, there was an overpowering urge to press his face into his general’s chest, because Mizael’s presence was the only thing that gave Durbe any peace. Their bond was an unceasing current of emotions, of thoughts and feelings and fears. Everything Mizael felt, Durbe felt. Everything Durbe felt, Mizael did, too.

Mizael knew, so he didn’t touch  Durbe.

* * *

 

It seemed like a lifetime had passed since the Barians invaded the Astral Palace and Kotori found herself a wanted fugitive. None of them truly expected to succeed in their plans to unite the other kingdoms against the Barians to work, had they? But at least they trusted each other. There were no secrets, no hidden agendas, no suspicions. All they had was each other; they couldn’t afford to keep secrets or hold grudges.

Things were different now. That plan to fight back against the Barians had failed, and with it, the bonds of trust they all once held. Their struggling group of five – Yuma, Astral, Rio, Ryoga, and Kotori – had no choice but to trust the others with their lives. The bond they had shared got caught in a web of lies, deceits, half-truths, and hidden agendas, spanning kingdoms and families and secret relationships.

Maybe it was her loneliness over losing Rio, or maybe the fact that she couldn’t understand how Yuma would just abandon them without warning, or even that Ryoga and Astral were acting like strangers trapped in their own heads, but Kotori didn’t want to be around any of them anymore. She didn’t know where they were going, or why, and didn’t ask questions because where else could she go?

A voice snapped Kotori out of her reverie. “You don’t seem very sure of yourself, Healer.”

Droite walked silently alongside her; Kotori wondered how long she had been there. “Oh… no, I’m just—“

“Tired?” Droite said tonelessly. “You haven’t had a good night’s sleep in months? Or a decent meal? Or a body to comfort you at night when you feel at your most vulnerable?”

Kotori’s face flushed and she turned away from Droite as they walked. She knew Droite observed that what bothered Kotori at that moment was not that she suffered physical needs. Yes, she was tired and hungry and alone, but was there a single person in their group who wasn’t? “I suppose… yes.”

“A word of advice,” Droite said after a brief pause. “When you get to be as experienced as I am in this profession, you know immediately when someone is lying to you.”

“With all due respect,” Kotori shot back without the slightest hint of respect in her voice, “I do not intend to be anything like you.”

To Kotori’s surprise, Droite nodded in something resembling… approval. “In some ways, Healer, you already are.”

Kotori clenched her fists and stared at Ryoga’s back, a few dozen paces away. Astral walked to the side, mumbling to himself. The mage walked several paces behind Ryoga, with Cathy off in the thinning trees. No one walked close enough to the others to hold conversations.

“The first night we fled the palace,” she whispered, struggling in vain to keep her chin from quivering, “we held hands as we ran… Yuma and Astral and I. We slept together on the frozen mountainside. Yuma did everything to protect us. When the Barians—“

She stopped walking and sobbed.

What happened? How did their relationships deteriorate so dramatically? They were all they had left in the world. She had thought that if they had anything in this pointless fight, it was each other.

But she was wrong. They didn’t even have that anymore.

If she expected Droite to offer sympathies, she was mistaken. The mercenary stood next to her, but her presence was as distant as any of the others’. How much it hurt, knowing that the only one who recognized that she was in pain was a hired murderer.

“Captain,” Gauche called out from a few yards away from Droite. 

Ryoga stopped. He didn’t turn around. “What?”

Neither Gauche nor Droite replied; they stood silently with their arms crossed until Ryoga finally turned and strode stiffly toward them, planting the butt of his lance in the mud. His eyes flashed with irritation which, Kotori realized, mirrored her own at that moment. “Why are we not moving?”

Droite pointed a finger at Kotori.

“Can we do this later?” Ryoga said impatiently. “We’re behind enough as it—“

“No.” Kotori dragged her dirty sleeve under her nose. “I’m not holding this in anymore.”

She backhanded him across the face.

The sharp slap echoed through the otherwise quiet trees.  Slowly, Ryoga lifted a hand to his cheek.

“What the hell was that about?” he said in a low voice.

“Lady Kotori?” Astral’s voice was nearby, but Kotori fixed her attention on Ryoga.

“You know _exactly_ what that was about.” Kotori took a deep breath. “The world does not center on you, Ryoga Kamishiro.”

Droite coughed quietly to cover up Gauche’s snort of laughter. Neither was convincing.

“Excuse me?”

Weeks of frustration poured from Kotori’s mouth like a vicious waterfall, and _gods_ did it feel liberating. “Contrary to what you think, you are not the only one who has suffered in this war. You are not the only one who has lost someone they love.”

“You wouldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to be the only—“

“Oh my _gods_!” Kotori punched him this time, much the same way Yuma had punched Kaito not too long ago, and his protest cut off in a grunt. “This _again_! We _all_ loved Rio!” Her voice wavered but she swallowed and plowed on. “You are wallowing so deep in your own self-pity and – and bizarre sense of superiority that you _fail to see that you’re destroying the only threads of trust we still had in each other_!”

“Destroying the Barians was our goal from the first day, Kotori!” Ryoga roared. “We don’t have time to be standing around crying about how we’re all not best friends anymore. This is a _war_! People change in war, and never for the better! Learn to accept it.”

“I will not accept it!” Kotori’s volume matched his. “Because you’re _wrong;_ people can change for the better even in the worst times. Yuma—“

“Yuma betrayed us for a Barian!”

“Yuma _empathized_ with one! Because, Ryoga, not every Barian on this goddamn continent is responsible for killing the people we love, just as not every human is a shining standard of morality. _You_ should know – Yuma loved you _despite_ what you are!”

Ryoga made a forward motion and Kotori realized that she had gone too far with her accusations; the pure disgust in Ryoga’s eyes indicated that he intended to do her harm.

And gods, she was afraid of him.

Astral lifted his hands, fists clenched. “ _Enough_ of this.”

Ryoga’s body twitched as though held back by an invisible force. Astral took three long strides before he was close enough to push Ryoga away from Kotori. He didn’t look at either of them.

“Do not… do that again.” Astral barely moved his lips. “Be silent.”

There was an unfamiliar hollowness in Astral’s voice, a lifeless look in his gaunt face. Maybe, Kotori realized with a sickening clench of her stomach, Ryoga was right, in a way. The war _had_ changed them. Ryoga was filled with pure hatred. Astral was stifling his emotions, his humanity. The only one who seemed unchanged in recent weeks was Cathy; then again, _her_ war had been ongoing for years. Was Kotori still recognizable as the gentle Healer,  or had she become someone else without even realizing it?

Of the two men, Kotori might have been more afraid of Astral’s lack of emotions than Ryoga’s overabundance of them.

“Hate to interrupt this emotional group session,” an unfamiliar voice interrupted, “but time is ticking.”

A man in revoltingly bright clothing, too clean for him to have been in the forest for very long, sat regally on a low tree branch. Droite grimaced at the sound of the man’s voice, and Gauche muttered a series of oaths.

Ryoga opened his mouth but closed it again at a simple glance from Astral. Kotori shuddered.

“Are you… Lord Heartland?” Astral said tonelessly.

The man gestured theatrically. “The one and only!” He scratched thoughtfully at his chin and slid to the ground. “I’ve been looking for you for quite some time, Prince Astral. Ever since I heard from my good friend Lord Faker that you had been spotted in my kingdom all those weeks ago.”

“How did you find us?”

Kotori had almost forgotten Takashi was there; he had been silent for hours. But he observed Heartland with the same narrow-eyed suspicion as Ryoga, and Kotori was sure he was prepared to use his magic if Heartland made one misstep, or gave one wrong answer.

“I just followed the dulcet tones of this lovely young lady here.” Heartland gestured at Kotori. “Honestly… I would be surprised if the Lord of the Week at Arclight didn’t hear you all the way from the palace—”

“How did you _find_ us?” Takashi repeated.

Heartland ignored the mage and turned instead to Gauche and Droite, who both looked anywhere but at the lord. “Surprised to see you two alive… while Lord Durbe is also _still alive._ Why, I have half a mind—”

“Yes, you do have half a mind,” Droite cut in icily as Heartland straightened up in indignation, “if you expected one vial of poison to be sufficient to murder one of the most influential and best-protected Barians in the Empire.”

“You might want to answer their questions,” Gauche added, and Ryoga lifted his lance to within striking distance of Heartland’s chest. Kotori fought the urge to push it out of the way. “They’re a bit of an unsavory group.”

Heartland’s mouth thinned, but the illusion of the smug noble was spoiled when Cathy dropped out of the tree right above them and he screamed.

On any other occasion, Kotori might have laughed, but there was precious little that she found amusing in this world anymore.

Cathy leaned entirely too close to Heartland and sniffed, nose twitching like a predatory cat’s. With a twist of his mouth, Heartland pushed her away. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“He smells,” she said distastefully.

“Excuse m—“

“Cut the crap, Heartland,” Gauche interrupted. “What’s your real goal here?”

Heartland brushed at his sleeve, though Cathy had not actually touched him. “Don’t talk to me like you’re my equal.”

“Kaito Tenjo told us that you’ve lost your kingdom,” Astral said flatly. “I believe that would make us all equals. Now give us a short answer, or keep your mouth closed.”

Maybe it was Astral’s bitter attitude, or that Heartland was surrounded by murderers and renegades and a woman wearing too-big trousers who was licking her own nose while staring him down. Maybe it was the lance at his chest. But Heartland put up his hands. “I need your…” His mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.” Takashi crossed his arms. “A little louder?”

Whatever the former lord wanted to say, it clearly pained him to say it. He took several deep breaths, gritted his teeth, and finally hissed out the word _help._

Droite snorted.

“We have nothing to gain from an alliance with you, Heartland.” Astral placed his hand on Ryoga’s lance and pushed it down. “We have our own concerns.”

“Astral Kingdom? Do you think you will stand a chance against the Barian Empire without any help?”

Heartland was a slimy coward, so Kotori could see why he was a successful politician. “I thought you came to us for help.”

“You help me get my kingdom back from the Barians, and I will assist you in driving them out of yours.” He smiled, a crooked, toothy smile. “I have a way to kill the Witch of Baria.”

* * *

 

Anna didn’t want to be the first one to give in to her exhaustion, so when Charlie stopped running to throw up next to a tree, she fell to her leaden knees in relief. Even Reina seemed to be having difficulties, judging by the way she faked a set of sneezes to cover up her sharp intakes of air.

“We’re only a couple of miles away from the docks,” Yuma murmured, casting an anxious look back through the sparse forest. He alone appeared unfazed by the sprint, and didn’t even sound short of breath. “We should keep going.”

“Great idea,” Anna wheezed, “if we didn’t have to _breathe_.”

“My gods-damned leg is killing me,” Reina grunted, holding herself upright on a slightly-bent birch tree. Her face was stark under her dark red hair. “It didn’t hurt too bad when we was running, but _hell_ Lieutenant, I ain’t going nowhere fast for a bit.”

Yuma closed his eyes. “Charlie?”

Charlie threw up again in response, and Yuma sighed.

They moved further into the trees, concealing themselves near some overgrown underbrush that snagged Anna’s cloak each time she moved. But the cover gave them the illusion of temporary safety, though Yuma’s hands were tight on the hilt of his sword and he cast frequent glances back toward the main trail. The other two pulled their cloaks over their bodies and went to sleep, but Anna’s heart pounded, her legs bounced uncontrollably, and she had too much on her mind to be able to fall asleep for a few days, probably.

She slid closer to Yuma instead. “What are we doing?”

He bit his lip and casually turned his upper body to check for the signs of approaching Barians, then half-shrugged.

It was Anna’s turn to sigh, but she didn’t press him. If he was going to drag them into some harebrained, suicidal mission to reclaim the Astral Kingdom from the Barians without killing anyone, who was she to question the insanity of the plan?

(On second thought, it would be more than reasonable for her to question the plan, seeing as she was involved in the harebrained, suicidal nature of the whole thing, and whether Yuma was prepared to accept death was irrelevant when Anna was most certainly not prepared to do _anything_ of the sort.)

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” Yuma said before she could figure out a polite way of telling him this entire plan was madness. (Again.) “I… I guess that I just wanted… to win this war without sacrifices.”

Anna held out her hands placidly. “Yuma, you can’t win a war through pacifism. It’d sure as hell be nice if we could stop the Barians by talking nicely to them, but that’s not how the world works.”

“I know, but…” Yuma leaned his forehead into his sword hilt. “Ryoga… the captain… he always told me that Barians were purely evil. That they couldn’t be trusted, that they were incapable of humanity, but Anna, that’s not true.”

“They invaded your kingdom. They killed people you loved.”

“That doesn’t mean that they are pure evil.” Yuma glanced back toward the path. “What we saw in the old Dragoon Village… Anna, there was regret there. Mizael and Durbe—“ He exhaled slowly. He flexed his fingers around the hilt.

Anna reached over and placed her hand over his. She had always been lousy at offering comfort, but Yuma was striving too hard to see the good in people who didn’t deserve it. “The reason the village was like that in the first place was _because_ of creatures like General Mizael and Lord Durbe, Yuma. There isn’t a person on this continent who hasn’t lost someone they care about to the Barians. They’re no different.”

She thought she knew what Yuma was thinking about when he brought up the lord and his general. She had been trying to distance herself from the situation when Kaito tried to murder them, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t heard Lord Durbe’s request to die alongside Mizael. But it very well could have been a show; Lord Durbe had been the one to torture Yuma, hadn’t he? He knew of Yuma’s soft nature. As one of the Seven Emperors, Durbe would surely be no stranger to manipulation.

“I have to go back,” Yuma whispered, and he began to rise.

Anna grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back forcefully. He fell to his knees. “You sure as hell are _not_ going back there. The captain looked like he was about to gut you if you hadn’t tied him to that bed.” Which, in retrospect, had been a very bizarre situation, and Anna didn’t really want to dwell too much on that. “If you go back, he’s only going to make you go through with his plan.”

“He won’t!” Yuma dropped his sword and caught Anna’s wrists with both hands. His face shone with eagerness. “He won’t; he told me to fight it. He made me promise I wouldn’t go through with whatever he said.”

Yuma’s belief in the best of people might have been endearing if it hadn’t been utterly contradictory to everything Anna knew about the world at that moment. “Yuma, I don’t know how to tell you this, but his plan was for _you_ to kill Vector—“

“Not Ryoga’s plan,” Yuma insisted.

How the hell was she supposed to respond to this madness? Whatever he was talking about, Yuma was well into a stage of denial. “I… heard the plan, Yuma, it was pretty clear what he was saying—“

“No, no, no, no.” Yuma shook his head fervently. “That’s not Ryoga, that’s… gods, I don’t know how to explain this.”

Was it too late to run away, change her name and her hair, and never associate with these people ever again?

“Sometimes, when you’re unconscious and… I don’t know, in tune enough with the Astral World, you can project your spirit there.”

What would being a brunette feel like? There were brown clothing dyes in Heartland City she might be able to acquire for her hair. She knew a few people who owed her.

Yuma didn’t seem to notice that Anna was only partially listening to anything he was saying. “When I got knocked out, I went to Astral World, except I wasn’t alone. Ryoga was there, too, but it wasn’t this Ryoga, it was _my_ – the real Ryoga.”

“I don’t understand a goddamn word that is coming out of your mouth right now,” Anna said with a humorless laugh.

But Yuma being transported to the Astral World in spirit made a hell of a lot more sense than _some bloodthirsty god took over control of Ryoga’s body._

“I promised him I would get him back,” Yuma whispered. “Please, Anna. We have to get back to the others… I never should have left them in the first place. We have to get back to them, and stop this Ryoga’s plans. I was going to go ahead with my plan but after talking to Ryoga I… I don’t think I can go through with it. It doesn’t feel right.”

Yuma’s sudden change of heart, if anything, put them in a far worse situation than before. The Arclight brothers already had the weapons distributed among local bandit groups. It was too late to turn back now; going through with the plan would cost lives, but not going through with it would cost lives for no reason at all.

And say Yuma _hadn’t_ been driven insane; if Ryoga was really possessed by some kind of god of destruction, what did he think he could do to “bring Ryoga back”? Did Yuma really think he was capable of defeating a _god_?

Not for the first time, she rued the day she decided to hunt Ryoga Kamishiro down for stealing her merchandise.

She threw up her hands in defeat. “Fine. But if for whatever reason this doesn’t work, you have to let go of your idealism, Yuma.”

“It’ll work.” Yuma’s jaw was set firmly, his eyebrows pushed together in determination. Anna didn’t know what was going through his mind. She didn’t have an alternate plan. This wasn’t even her war.

_You had better know what you’re doing, Yuma._

* * *

 

With Kazuma Tsukumo’s journal packed in Durbe’s pocket for later study – he couldn’t bring himself to open it again, not then – Durbe looked up from his pile of documents to where Mizael stood, staring unseeingly at the same pages of the book he’d been reading for the past five minutes, his fingers tracing the dragon etched into the hilt of his sword. It wasn’t hard to see that something was bothering him. But then, Durbe didn’t need to _see_ Mizael to know something was wrong. He felt the unease festering in his general as intensely as if it were his own.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Mizael exhaled sharply. “There are these… images in my mind. Ever since we bonded, they’ve been getting more vivid, but here they’re like… hallucinations. I’m having trouble staying focused.”

The Astral Palace was as close to the Astral World as any place on the earth, and the lack of natural crystal in the entire region made Barians weaker, more vulnerable. That was the only explanation Durbe could come up with, but when he voiced this hypothesis, Mizael snapped the book shut and leaned against the table.

“Are you not going to ask me what I see?”

Durbe remained silent.

“I see the world burning.” Mizael fixed his gaze on the nearest bookshelf. “That morning… after the soul transfer. You knew something was wrong and I told you—“

_I think I’m going to die soon, Durbe._

“After everything we’ve done,” Durbe whispered, “after building _this_ together… you don’t _still_ believe that you’re destined to—“

“Die?”

“—do anything you don’t want to.” Durbe’s voice was firmer as he grabbed Mizael’s arm. “You were fated to be alone. I was fated to be a nobody. We’ve beaten our fates already. Whatever our future holds now happens because _we_ made it so, not because _God_ ” – he spat out the word – “wanted it to happen.”

“I’m not afraid to die, Durbe.” None of Mizael’s emotions betrayed this sentiment. His soul was calm. Durbe’s was not.

“I know you haven’t,” he said sharply. “You always seemed like you _wanted_ to.”

“Everyone dies,” Mizael repeated, and there was a stab of annoyance in his tone now, followed by an unexpected lurch of guilt. “I’d rather it be me than you.”

“I want to hit you right now.”

“I know.” Mizael tried and failed to meet Durbe’s eyes. “I couldn’t remember for a long time why I was unconscious in that _place_ for days. I couldn’t remember what happened, except pieces here and there, like a few misplaced puzzle pieces. All I knew was that it was… much like the human perception of Barian World – of Hell. But now I remember it clearly.”

It made Durbe’s chest burn to listen to Mizael recount the dream, only now he wasn’t so sure it was only a dream. There were ways for the human spirit to connect to Astral World, he knew, but until now he had never heard of a Barian’s conscious soul materializing in Barian World. The way Mizael described the world – mountains of jagged crystals, the boiling ocean, the sky of red – _did_ sound like a passage from the human holy books.

If such a place was all that awaited them after death, Durbe did not want to die.

“The line in the prophecy about the Dragon striking down kings…” Mizael hesitated, and that was all Durbe needed to hear.

“One thing at a time, Mizael,” he said gently. The last thing Mizael needed to do was abandon his lifelong dream – _their_ dream – for a vaguely worded prophecy because he was afraid Durbe would be hurt.

Mizael nodded slowly. “I need the power of Origin.”

_Haruto_. Durbe closed his eyes. It wouldn’t be too difficult to find Haruto, he explained, but Mizael would have to be careful not to attract Alasco’s attention.

“Thank you.”

“Are you leaving _now_?” Durbe opened his eyes again. A growing sensation of unease filled his chest. His own, and Mizael’s.

“I think it’s as good a time as any.”

“When will you be back?” Durbe didn’t want to feel Mizael’s regrets, or his own. No amount of hoping and ignoring the past would erase the crimes they had committed together. 

“You no longer carry your burdens alone.” Mizael touched Durbe’s arm; it was a simple gesture, but Durbe had to squeeze his eyes shut against the pain seizing his burning chest. “And I no longer carry mine on my own.”

There were a million things Durbe wanted to say to his general at that moment. There were a million things he didn’t _need_ to say.

Mizael reached around Durbe’s waist and removed the knife Durbe kept at his belt. Durbe didn’t ask why. He didn’t flinch as Mizael took his hand and made a small incision on each of their arms, his right and Durbe’s left.

“I swear on my blood,” Mizael said quietly. He intertwined his fingers with Durbe’s, pressing their palms together first, then their blood. “I will return to you.”

Durbe nodded, leaning up so he could touch his forehead to Mizael’s. They stood in the library for a long minute, foreheads touching, neither wanting to let go. But slowly, painfully, Mizael loosened his hold and stepped back, giving Durbe a respectful bow as he vanished into his portal.

It was the first genuinely respectful bow Mizael had ever given a Barian Lord.


	63. Broken Warrior, Soulless Sinner

Time passed slowly in the Garden of the Gods.

To Kaito, it seemed as though he were there for a lifetime, sitting by the crystalline lake in complete solitude. The mountains on the opposite shore were unlike any he had seen before; covered with blue-green firs, capped with snow, these mountains were a stark difference from the barren ridges of the Barian Kingdom or the sparsely vegetated slopes of Astral Kingdom.

At first, he thought it was Paradise. But a garden in the Astral World was no place for a shell, an empty body wandering the earth with his damned soul attached to a sacred sword.

The ultimate irony, that a man who had known another man for ten years before selling his soul to the Barians would end up carrying a drop of Dragoon blood in his veins.

He was there long enough to think about every single sin he had committed, every single life he had ruined. He thought of Haruto, the Barians’ prisoner, and the one for whom Kaito gave up his life, his future, his soul to save, only to fail. He thought of his kingdom under Barian rule. He thought of how much of a shame he was to his father, how disgusting Faker must believe him to be.

He thought of the Kamishiro twins, one who chose to end her own life rather than follow the fate assigned her from  birth, and one whose overwhelming grief over being born from a Barian and a Dragoon woman drove him to become the antithesis of what a Dragoon was. Kaito could no longer sense Ryoga Kamishiro’s presence, as if the man’s own soul had been ripped from him as well.

He thought of Chris, the man he loved, the man he gave his heart and body to, the man who taught him to use the sword, who told him about the legend of the Dragon, who was his mentor. He thought of every kiss, every hiding place, every tryst, every mark on his collarbones that he hid from his father and the palace staff, of every excuse he ever had to go to Arclight to carry on that stupid, childish romance with a man it was wrong in every way to love. He thought of Chris’s new wife, and realized that she could now provide Chris with the heir it was his duty to produce.

“It was a stupid fantasy,” he said into the silence. He couldn’t be disappointed in the fact that things between them could never have worked out. He knew it from the very first time, ten years ago, when they first made love on that bed of hay. He had deluded himself into believing that his humanity was what made him better than the Barians, that his humanity would guarantee that he was victorious in his quest.

_You don’t know the hearts of others… Not like I do. And you fail, Kaito Tenjo, at realizing that Barians are just as capable of love and loss as you are._

He didn’t know what to believe anymore.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for you,” he said quietly, and he finally turned to face Mizael. He wasn’t surprised to see Haruto there, too, though he felt a burst of rage at the sight of Mizael’s human hand clawing into Haruto’s shoulder.

Mizael remained silent.

“Isn’t this the Astral plane?” Kaito stood, leaving his sword  sheathed. “How did a Barian come to occupy this place?”

He directed the question toward Mizael, but Haruto answered instead, in a chillingly emotionless voice. “ _The broken soul, a weary warrior approaches the Mountain of the Gods, seeking penance, offering a soul with his blood._ ”

Kaito couldn’t repress a shiver.

“Even the lowest plane of the Astral World is closed to those who possess Barian soul energy.”

“Then where are we?” Kaito’s voice shook.

Haruto took a step forward, out of Mizael’s grip, and lifted his hand. Three orbs of light hovered in the air above them: one blue, one red, and one yellow. “These are the worlds. Astral World.  Barian World. And the physical world.” The edges of each orb touched, but did not overlap. Haruto pointed at the empty space between them. “There is a void here, free from prejudice. Those who do not belong in the Astral World or the Barian World end up in this place.” He turned his gaze toward Kaito. “You, who possess a drop of Dragoon blood and yet removed your soul for Barian power, do not belong in the Astral World. And you” –he turned to Mizael—“the broken soul who found completeness only in a second imperfect soul, do not belong in Barian World.”

_A second imperfect soul?_

Of course…

_We were building it together, the two of us. A better future for our homeland._

Durbe.

“How was he imperfect?” Kaito directed the question at Mizael, but it was Haruto who answered.

“Your ancestor fled to a village where Barians and humans coexisted… for a time.”

Once the implication of this simple declaration sank in, he fought the urge to throw up; judging by the twist in Mizael’s face, he did too, before speaking for the first time in a quiet voice. “What of Durbe’s brother?”

“Half-brother,” Haruto supplied, and Mizael bit his lip.

The situation was not humorous, but Kaito laughed anyway, mirthlessly. “Did you know that about him before you fucked him? That he was part human after all?”

“A spoiled, privileged prince like you would never understand,” Mizael shot back, placing a hand to his chest. “Durbe is a _Barian_ , and the bond between two Barians is stronger than any superficial _love_ that a human could ever hope to feel.”

Kaito only suspected it before, but Mizael’s outburst confirmed it.

“Why are we here, anyway?” Mizael’s voice was bitter. “What do we do now?”

Haruto held up his hands. “You will be tested.”

“How?”

A humorless smile appeared on Haruto’s face. It sent chills through Kaito’s body. “That’s up to you.”

All feeling in Kaito’s body disappeared, and he fell to the ground like a limp doll; before his vision gave out, he could see that Mizael had fallen, too.

_Tested…_

The grass felt like a pillow under Kaito’s weary head, and he fell asleep instantly.

* * *

 

He loved summer evenings in Tenjo.

The overcast day was well-spent in the gardens, listening to his mother telling him and Haruto fanciful stories of warrior women and people who lived with animals in the northern mountains, all while trimming rose bushes and chasing butterflies. Haruto even made a crown of flowers.

“Kneel, Master Kaito,” he said in a low, regal voice, and Kaito knelt at his mother’s lifted eyebrow and let Haruto place the crown on his head. “Rise, King Kaito! May the gods bless you.”

“May the gods bless my beautiful son.” His mother then gave him a kiss on each cheek and a deep curtsy, causing Kaito’s face to burn in embarrassment, and she did a poor job at concealing her laughter. He was spared having to give his mother a dignified retort about how _I am thirteen_ by a clap of thunder.

“Ah!” She pressed her hands together. “Better get my liege and my prince out of the gardens before it starts raining and they catch a summer cold!”

“Mother, where are the butterflies?” Haruto shuffled along beside her, turning his head every which way. “Won’t they be sick in the rain?”

Their mother paused, despite the impending storm, and knelt next to her son. She adjusted the sash around Haruto’s waist and pushed her dirty-blonde braid back. “They’re only sick when they’re trapped.”

“Where?” Haruto tilted his head quizzically.

“Inside.” She tapped his chest and gave him a pained smile. “They get so sad and sick… when they can’t fly free.”

Haruto didn’t hear her voice crack. Kaito did.

* * *

 

Filthy, emaciated faces watched him in silence as he was paraded through the dark veins of the deepest mine in Baria. He tried to ignore the disgust in their hollow expressions; not that he wasn’t used to it. It took his parents ten years to give him over to the Seven Lords – he supposed he had been lucky their hatred for his existence stopped at sentencing a _child_ to death in the mines.

He could have laughed, if he had ever known how to. He _was_ still a child, after all.

“Where do you want it?”

 _It._ They never referred to him as anything but _it_ or _the freak._

 _I didn’t ask to exist_.

“Take it to the lowest level. The less anyone has to look at it, the better.”

None of them touched him; they prodded him along with blunt staves like a pack animal. He tried to keep his head down, tried to pull his hair over the asymmetrical protrusion on the side of his face, to cover the raw under-skin that had never fully developed and the cracks down the sides of his face.

Not that it did any good.

“What do they call it?”

“Doesn’t really matter.”

 _Mizael_ , he wanted to say. It was a name he picked out for himself, because his parents never gave him one. It was a bright star in the sky, he read in one of his father’s books. Part of the large plough. _Part of something bigger than itself._

They shoved him into a dark corner, threw a shovel at him, and told him to mine a crystal. They didn’t tell him why.

 _How long?_ he asked.

 _Until you die,_ they replied.

* * *

 

“We can’t leave her in there!”

Haruto’s screaming became louder with each word. He tried to force his shoulders out of Lord Faker’s grip, and Kaito could see that his father was losing his composure. It wasn’t as though Kaito could help. He could barely hold himself together, standing in front of his mother’s casket.

She had been sick for years, the Healers said. And she hid it from her children, because she didn’t want them to know they would lose her so soon.

“She’ll get sad!” Haruto was in hysterics. “It’s because she wasn’t free! She needs to be free! Let her out! _Let her out_!”

Faker’s façade of calmness shattered as he dragged the screaming five-year-old from the throne room, Haruto’s accusations ringing in the chamber. Kaito had never seen his father cry before. He never wanted to again. A lord should never cry.

A gentle hand rested on his back, between his shoulder blades. He turned his weary head toward an unfamiliar face. A teenage boy, perhaps a few years Kaito’s elder, with soft blue eyes filled with sympathetic tears, his long white hair tied back in a braid, was looking into his face with concern.

In a way, he reminded Kaito of his mother.

“It is not a shame to cry,” he said softly. “Especially when you lose a loved one.”

“How would _you_ know?” Kaito wanted to take the words back as they left his lips, but he was sick of false sympathy from other nobles who never knew, nor cared to know who his mother truly was. All they talked about was _succession_ – the queen, of the Tenjo lineage, had been the rightful ruler of the kingdom. His father was an outsider, not even a _noble_. But Kaito, they deemed, was too young to assume the throne, and the court reluctantly agreed that, until Kaito was wed and had a successor of his own, the title of ruler would belong to Lord Faker.

Kaito didn’t want the throne anyway.

The boy removed his hand from Kaito’s back and nodded toward two younger boys in black mourning robes, one Kaito’s age and the other a few years younger. Neither looked at the casket; the older of the two had his lips pressed together in an almost angry grimace while the other stared blankly at the ceiling. “My brothers Thomas, Mihael, and I lost our own mother a few years ago.”

Kaito felt a stab of guilt. “I’m…” He wanted to say _sorry_ but he found he wasn’t, not really; how could this boy come in here and downplay Kaito’s grief?

The boy seemed to understand, though. “It’ll take time to heal, Lord Kaito. It will always hurt, but the wound will heal… someday. You need to be strong for him… for your brother. And your father.”

He started to walk away, and Kaito… _gods,_ he was _angry_ – angry at himself, angry at his father, angry at these strangers who didn’t understand what the world had lost when his mother died. He wanted to tell the boy that he, Kaito Tenjo,would never heal from his mother’s death, that _he_ would always feel the emptiness, and that his brother now had to grow up without a mother’s love.

Instead, he asked, “what’s your name?”

“Christopher,” was the response. “Christopher Arclight.”

* * *

 

They stripped him down first. There wasn’t any need; the marks were not going down his entire body. But the humiliation was an added bonus.

And God, did they humiliate him.

The forced transition from his Barian form to the human form he had never taken before was… unbearable. It was the most physical pain he thought was possible: the soul gem in the center of his chest came off unwillingly, with long tendrils of nerves hanging from it; his skin bubbled off in chunks, leaving behind raw, pink flesh; his insides shifted and dissolved and reformed to create the human systems – there was a terrifying moment of panic when he could not breathe. His face split open, forming soft human lips, and the teeth shoved through his soft gums like knives.

He screamed.

It was a raw sound, hoarse and gritty, and it burned his throat, but he screamed as they shoved him against a board and tied him down. He screamed in humiliation, in pain, in anger, and they laughed.

A grizzled Barian in fine robes stood over him, leaned close. Mizael strained against the ropes holding him down, but he had neither the strength nor the energy in this body. He didn’t even know what he looked like.

“A pretty little human,” the Barian said, tilting his head. “It looks better this way.”

“Fuck you,” Mizael rasped, snapping his new teeth at the Barian, and everyone laughed.

He was to be the day’s entertainment.

“I am Lord Koche,” the Barian said slowly and loudly. “What are you called?”

Mizael’s body shook violently. “A lord? You can go to hell, you bastard.”

Koche laughed, a gravelly sound, and gestured toward someone Mizael couldn’t see. “It’s not your place to say things like that to me. You understand, I had to come down here for this arduous task, and I _really_ didn’t want to waste my time on something like you.”

Mizael clenched his jaw.

“Good. Learning already.” Koche took a crooked rod, glowing red hot, and leaned forward. “Let everyone know that even in your cute little human form, you’re a monster.”

He pressed the glowing rod to Mizael’s face, and Mizael screamed until no sound escaped his raw throat.

* * *

 

The priest’s voice droned on as Kaito removed his coat, his sash, and his shirt before kneeling in front of the altar. It was a yearly ritual that Kaito hated, but this year was… worse. Because he had a sin he couldn’t atone for, something worse than the petty emotions he had as a child or lying to his father about learning the art of war.

 “…the lowest plane, the plane of mortality…”

He grunted at the sharp sting of the priest’s switch, squeezed his eyes against the tears unwillingly burning there.

 “…the second plane, the plane of those least worthy…”

Each lash cut shallowly into his skin. The priest never made the pain permanent; it wasn’t his intention. At the end of the seven lashes, he would be Healed, a symbol of the gods’ mercy.

 “…the highest plane of the most faithful, the godly chosen…”

He wondered if he could slip past the Healers at the end. He didn’t deserve the mercy, because he loved his sin. He could not atone for it, because he wouldn’t mean it.  Wasn’t it a greater sin to falsely atone?

He longed to be with Christopher Arclight. He felt guilty about it; they were both men, they were princes. But not guilty enough to give Chris up.

After all, once he wed and his wife bore him an heir, he would have to claim the throne.

“May the gods bless you.”

He didn’t want that responsibility. Not yet.

* * *

 

Coronations for the Barian Emperors were private affairs, open only to those with influence or special connections. They were low-key for a reason: large, public gatherings were excellent places for assassination attempts. As a result, Mizael only knew half of the Barians’ ruling body, and that was only because two of them had tormented him in the military and the other had approached their newest comrade with the offer to become a lord.

He kept his hood up, his face down, because there was no reason for a low-ranking soldier like him to be wandering the palace halls, and knocked on one unadorned door in the lords’ quarters.

“Come in.”

Durbe had always been a small Barian, with a thin frame and weak powers. But he held himself with a regal authority, as though he had been born into this position as the Seventh Emperor of the Barian Kingdom. His white and silver robes were loose around the waist, and dragged the floor when he turned to meet his guest. He had accented the pale markings on his face in paint.

He would grow into his new role, Mizael thought. Durbe’s ruthlessness in destroying the Dragoon Village had been fitting for a prospective lord. Even two months later, Mizael couldn’t sleep, his conscious and unconscious mind plagued by the horrors of that autumn evening. 

But he had wanted to believe Durbe was different, because Durbe had always looked beyond Mizael’s incompleteness. Durbe had been the first to extend a hand of _friendship_ toward him, of genuine concern and appreciation for Mizael’s support and presence. 

 _Are you sure you want to do this?_ Durbe had asked as they waited outside the boundaries of the village, _because you don’t have to do this… I will take this sin squarely upon my own shoulders._

Mizael’s chest clenched. _I will not flee like a coward. Come what may… I will fight at your side._

It was hardly a wonder some of the accusations others had leveled at him as he, a marked outcast, became an officer through Durbe’s insistence. But he always suppressed the tiny part of his worthless soul that wished such accusations were true.

He’d long since come to recognize that this desire was only getting more potent the longer he spent with Durbe. He’d long since come to recognize that it would never, could never, and should never progress. Especially not now, especially now that Durbe was a lord.

Mizael held his hand to his chest in a salute as Durbe glided over to him. He didn’t move as Durbe embraced him, arms loosely wrapped around Mizael’s torso, chin resting awkwardly on Mizael’s shoulder.

“I’m glad you came,” Durbe whispered.  

“Where else would I go?” Mizael said irritably.

A rare smile lit Durbe’s eyes. “I have something for you.”

“Not another sword, I hope.”

Durbe laughed. “No. One that I think you might actually like.” He reached into his robes and pulled out a small, oblong box. “Here.”

 Mizael took it but didn’t remove the lid. “I’ve never received a real gift before.”

The smile in Durbe’s face faltered for a heartbeat, replaced by a flicker of pity, maybe, or regret. “Open it.”

It was a gold charm, simple and unadorned, with a dangling piece that resembled a claw or a fang. He remained silent as Durbe took it out of his hands and leaned up to thread it into Mizael’s hair. It was surprisingly light.

“Do you like it?” Durbe looked at him eagerly.

Mizael didn’t know what to say for a long moment, during which Durbe’s eyebrows creased anxiously. He finally decided on “why?”

Durbe reached for Mizael’s forearm, gripped it. “Mizael, I would like to promote you.”

A promotion was more than Mizael deserved for anything. The other lords would be furious that Durbe’s first act as Lord was to promote an undesirable to any military ranking. His chest tightened, but for once, it was not out of anger or anxiety. “I… don’t deserve…” He faltered. “If that’s… what you want, I suppose. Fine."

He had never seen a smile like that on Durbe’s face before.

“Will you escort me to the ceremony, then?” Durbe’s eyes were bright. “General Mizael?”

Mizael turned to look Durbe in the eyes once more. For the first time in his life, he smiled too.

“I… it would be a great honor, Durbe.”

* * *

 

Kaito usually complained when Chris took control – _I’m older_ , Chris would say with a lopsided grin, _I’m the mentor_ – but tonight, he welcomed it; he welcomed Chris’s hot, heavy breaths and rough grip and sharp bites and painful thrusts because it meant that, maybe for the last time, someone could make Kaito’s choices for him.

He was glad his mother wasn’t alive to see how disgraceful a man her son had become.

He didn’t have to pretend to enjoy it. Neither of them did. Chris wouldn’t kiss Kaito’s lips, wouldn’t open his eyes even when Kaito buried his fingernails into Chris’s lean back muscles and let out a groan—not of pleasure, but of discomfort—but that was fine. Kaito didn’t want Chris to see him crying. But maybe Chris wouldn’t mind. He was crying, too.

When Chris was done – Kaito couldn’t finish; he knew he wouldn’t – they both settled back on their pillows. Kaito expected the familiar surge of guilt to replace the temporary euphoria, like it did even after ten years of being involved with Chris. But with no euphoria to replace, the guilt crashed through his body unopposed.

It was an accident, just as their first time had been; Chris’s words from the night before pounded into Kaito far more painfully than Chris’s body ever could.

_I sold my soul to the Barians, Kaito. To protect Mihael and Thomas._

Kaito had screamed and fought, had slammed Chris into the wall; Chris didn’t fight back. He stood still, let Kaito punch him in the stomach, and yet allowed himself no tears at that moment, which only infuriated Kaito more, until his hands were around Chris’s neck, and it was perhaps Chris’s resigned expression that broke Kaito’s will. His hands slipped from Chris’s neck down the front of Chris’s shirt, and he clung desperately to the fabric as his shoulders shook with the effort of holding back his anguish. 

Chris had touched his shoulders, held him aloft, silent as a statue, until Kaito managed to look up into the tired, lined face of his lover and whispered two familiar words. _Fuck me._

And Chris did. Kaito didn’t know why. Maybe Chris wanted it too, for a moment, hoping it would give them a few minutes to pretend things would be all right between them. 

It was a childish wish.

“Kaito.”

The cold metal of the bracelet around Chris’s wrist rested on Kaito’s naked waist. He fought back a wave of nausea. “Take that off.” The words were harsh; maybe too harsh. Kaito was too sick, too disgusted, too ashamed to care. “Take that fucking thing off.”

Maybe the reason he was so disgusted by it wasn’t because of what it _was_ – the proof of allegiance with the Barian Empire, a physical link with Barian _World_ , a rejection of humanity. Chris hadn’t done it to hurt anyone. He wanted to save his brothers from damnation and control.

_But they took my brothers’ souls anyway._

It was because Kaito had already resolved to do the same for Haruto. And the knowledge that Haruto would be at their mercy no matter _what_ he chose to do made Kaito truly hate himself for the first time in his life.

* * *

 

When Mizael opened his eyes, Durbe was not next to him. Instead, he stood by the wide balcony window of his quarters at Baria, in full lordly regalia, a sword at his waist.

 _Mizael’s_ sword.

_“The broken soul, a weary warrior approaches the Mountain of the Gods.”_

Durbe spoke the words with rare bitterness. He didn’t turn from the window, didn’t acknowledge Mizael. He might have been talking to himself, if the words hadn’t been the vague ramblings of a long-lost prophecy they both were only too familiar with.

“Durbe, why are—“

“ _The blood-red city burns.”_

Mizael focused his eyes on the window. He expected the flames, the smoke, the palace walls crumbling despite there being no indication of it here, in this room. It didn’t make it any easier to see. He pushed the silk sheets from his body and was surprised to see that he, too, was in full military regalia.

And his sword was at his waist.

Durbe rotated on the spot, slowly. His unsmiling human face held no warmth.

_“The Dragon strikes down the Kings. And as he wields his Sword, another King is born.”_

Mizael stood on trembling legs.

Durbe drew the sword at his waist and Mizael realized that it wasn’t _his_ Dragoon blade after all.

It was Kaito’s.

Mizael deflected the intended blow – a killing blow – and stumbled back into the side table, shattering a cold cup of coffee on the floor.

“Dur—“

He moved to his right, almost too late, and Durbe’s sword planted itself firmly in the wall, exactly behind where Mizael’s head had been.

“Fight back, Mizael.”

“I won’t—”

Durbe wrenched the sword from the wall and wheeled on his general with far too much grace, far too much speed and poise and strength.

It made no sense, because when it came to swordplay, Durbe was among the worst Mizael had ever met. This Durbe was skilled; some of his poses were clearly learned from a master, a master Mizael knew he never had.

Steel clanged on steel; a shock went through Mizael’s body on contact, reminiscent of a fraction of energy from a soul transfer. Durbe never strained against Mizael’s resistance, never broke his empty gaze, even as he led Mizael backward through the dark room with each lazy strike, toward the balcony window.

 “You’re not Durbe,” he managed to say, and his back pressed against the glass.

Durbe’s sword smashed through the window next to Mizael’s head; there was a deafening crash of glass, as tiny shards nicked Mizael’s exposed skin, cut into his expensive silks –

The glass underfoot cut into the soles of his boots. If they penetrated the leather, Mizael didn’t notice. He fixed all his attention now on this creature who bore the face of his lover, his soulmate, his only friend.

Durbe lowered the sword and gestured with his other hand toward the destruction that Mizael barely registered during the one-sided fight. The air was thick with smoke, yet he had no difficulty breathing. The fires licked at the palace walls, yet it was cold. The only sound he heard was his own heart beating, his own shaky breaths.

“How much do you love it?” The voice was not Durbe’s. The hand that touched his shoulder was not Durbe’s. “Do you love your kingdom?”

Mizael allowed the stranger to turn him around so he could look out toward the mines where he was forced into a life of slavery to a kingdom that abhorred him. He looked past them, toward the Waste, the desert where Durbe grew up and lost everything; beyond them, lands where Mizael’s own hands had taken loved ones, had torn apart families, had destroyed souls.

For what?

Tears fell along his facial markings, the agonizing brand that marked his deformities.

“No.”

“Tell me. Who do you really seek to save?”

He couldn’t speak.

The eyes weren’t Durbe’s either.

Maybe he could have deflected the blow, had he moved his arm, but he didn’t, and Kaito pushed his steady sword into Mizael’s torso.

* * *

 

Kaito dropped his sword, and Ryoga Kamishiro’s words filled his mind, a casual reminiscence of a conversation he once had with Yuma Tsukumo.

_I asked him if he had any idea what it was like to kill another man. What it was like to be in battle, to hold your enemy’s life in your hands. To feel your weapon pierce their body, to feel the blood seep through, onto the ground, to watch as their eyes widen in terror as they realize what’s happening. To watch the life leave their eyes._

He didn’t want to see the realization in Chris’s eyes that he was dying. He didn’t want to see the life leave Chris’s eyes. Because, gods, he… Even to save Haruto’s life, even to destroy the Barians, he—

“I killed you,” he said hollowly, and those terrified blue eyes weren’t Chris’s anymore.

They were Mizael’s.

They had been this whole time.

Only a few days ago, Kaito would have been satisfied at the sight of the cruel Barian general bleeding to death at his feet, by his hand. He would be overcome with relief: relief that this threat to his family, to his kingdom, to the world was dead, relief that he hadn’t taken the life of the man he loved.

_Who do you fight for, Kaito Tenjo? Yourself? Or your brother?_

And maybe there was relief there. But Ryoga had been right. Yuma had been right. He was not satisfied.

He was empty.

Mizael took agonizingly slow breaths, struggling to sit up. Kaito didn’t move to retrieve his sword. He had no desire to.

He looked down and Mizael looked up. For the first time, he saw the general’s expression relaxed. Accepting. Human.

“Go ahead,” the Barian said.

Kaito looked at Haruto instead. “What happens to his body… on earth?”

“General Mizael will die.”

Kaito turned his head. “Durbe wanted to die with you.”

Mizael moved his hand from his side to his chest, where Kaito knew his soul gem rested. His crimson blood spread through his light silk robes. “Part of him will,” he said simply, and Kaito nodded.

He understood.

“He has only a few minutes of life in his body,” Haruto said bluntly. “He is in terrible pain. Would you like to end his suffering, Kaito Tenjo?”

Kaito’s head moved on its own. “No. Go back… to him.” The words sounded distant.

For everything that Mizael was, he didn’t deserve to die alone. Because while Kaito would kill the one he loved for the power of the Dragon, Mizael would rather die than do the same to his lover. 

In this, Kaito supposed, he was less human than the worst of Barians.

Mizael’s body faded out in a haze of tiny blinking lights, as if he was engulfed in red and purple fireflies.

Kaito closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he was no longer in his bedroom, where Chris had forced him to choose – _me or Haruto –_ and Kaito had made his choice.

An illusion, collapsing around him until he stood in an empty desert at sunrise, the revenants gone until the sun made its way through the sky once more and their endless quest for justice continued for another night. A test, he now knew, to determine whether his heart was tempered for the task he had to undertake.

He had to destroy the world.

“I thought it would feel different.”

“What did you expect, Kaito Tenjo?”

He didn’t know.

“At any rate,” Haruto went on, “you have fulfilled your part. It is time for your brother to fulfil his.”

“Yeah.” Kaito’s mouth was dry; his voice came out as a rasp. “How… how do we get the power out of Haruto?”

“Your brother does not merely possess the Power of Origin, Kaito Tenjo.” Haruto held out his hands. “He _is_ the Power of Origin. The Dragon sleeps within him. But now it is waking, and it will burn him up.” He held his palms face up and looked into Kaito’s face. There was no familiarity in his eyes. No gentleness, no curiosity.

There was no Haruto there.

“What do I do?” Kaito whispered.

“End his suffering, Kaito Tenjo,” the Dragon replied, “by taking me into your body and soul in his place.”

* * *

 

The nearly-full moon’s white light shined through the Tenjo library’s stained glass windows, casting beams of purple and blue and red across the floor. Durbe watched the slow-moving beams travel over tile and bookshelves and the desk where he sat with his legs bouncing uncontrollably. Each minute that passed amplified his crushing anxiety; each drip of wax from the steadily melting candle on the table felt as though it were hardening in his stomach. He read and reread the same line of Kazuma Tsukumo’s journal for hours. Mizael had been gone for over two days now. Surely…

A confusing blend of emotions had filled him for the first few hours of Mizael’s absence. Anger, sorrow, pity, fear, panic, frustration—

—and then it dulled, similar to when Mizael was asleep, except even in his dreams Mizael could not escape – or maybe he was more susceptible to – the memories of a lifetime of pain. This was different; Mizael’s _presence_ was there, in the sense that Durbe knew he lived, but there was nothing else. As if Mizael were unconscious.

For two days.

He stood up, legs still jittery, and walked around the table to the middle of the library. The high ceiling amplified the sound of his anxiously tapping feet. Then, he felt a lurch of surprise that was not his own, followed by the pain he knew instinctively would come.

When the portal flickered into view to his immediate right, he was perfectly positioned to catch his general as he collapsed into Durbe’s arms, pulling them both to the cold floor. Blood flowed freely from Mizael’s torso, drenching the light leather armor that had failed to protect him, and he struggled for breath as he searched out Durbe’s eyes in the semidarkness. Durbe pulled off his scarf and used it to stifle the blood, pulling Mizael closer. He should have called for a Healer, but somehow he knew it would be too little, too late.

“I’m sorry.”

It was happening again. But this time, it was a living nightmare, and not a dream.

 _Sorry for what_ , Durbe wanted to say, but when he tried to speak, no sound left his mouth. God; Mizael was in such _pain_ – Durbe could feel it, muted though it was through Mizael’s apparent efforts to mask the severity of it from his soulmate – and yet… and yet…

“You came back to me.”

Mizael’s weak laugh gave way to a grunt of pain. “I promised… right?” 

Durbe shook his head. Mizael’s emotions were impossible to reason out – an overwhelming mixture of pain, disappointment, humiliation, and… peace.

“Thank you… for giving me the chance no one else would. I’m happy I was able to serve you.”

“You—“ A torrent of tears cut off Durbe’s reply. They fell onto Mizael’s scarred, imperfect face, mingling with Mizael’s own. Mizael waited for Durbe to force the lump in his throat down, waited as if he had all the time in the world and was not slipping from this life. “You gave everything… everything for me. I never deserved… you.”

Mizael smiled faintly and rested his hand on Durbe’s lapis. This time, as Durbe closed his eyes against the tide of emotions and life flooding into his soul from the last vestiges of Mizael’s energy, he didn’t fight against it. Mizael would never forgive him for insulting his sacrifice that way. Durbe wanted to scream at the feeling of Mizael’s once-electrifying soul energy reduced to a barely discernible tingle – _God,_ it wasn’t _fair_! After everything, after all their oaths and promises—

“A king doesn’t… grieve his warrior’s death,” Mizael reminded him gently, and he finally released Durbe’s gem.

“I’m not a king,” Durbe whispered, pushing Mizael’s hair from his eyes. He wanted to see them, those tired, troubled, haunted eyes, and remember a time when, even for a moment, they were full of life and purpose. He wanted to see them but it was hard, through a pool of tears, to see anything more than the blurry outline of blue.

“Durbe.”

Durbe had never noticed before how beautiful his name sounded on Mizael’s lips.

“Mizael…”

A sad smile. A regretful smile. “You are… _my_ king.”

His eyes held Durbe’s for a moment longer before slipping out of focus.

And as suddenly as a candle being extinguished, the pain, the emotions, the perfect connection and warmth and comfort that was their soul link... was gone.


	64. Shifting Tides

Chris was gone again, before Akari even woke up, so she splashed cold water on her face and wandered down to the dining hall by herself. She wore the same dress she had worn for the past three days (including to sleep in) and it was wrinkled, but there was no one to impress but herself. It was still early; if she was lucky,  _he_ wouldn’t be there and she could eat a quick breakfast before picking up a few books in the library and going back to bed. ****

That was, of course, counting on luck, which always seemed to abandon her in times of trouble. This time was no exception, and she didn’t know why she expected any differently.

Alasco wasn’t alone. There was a dark-skinned woman arguing with him, dressed in plain, tight black clothing and more silver jewelry than Akari had ever seen in one place before.  _Pherka_ , Akari registered, one of the Seven Lords, and she slowly backed out of the dining room. Neither of the Barians seemed to notice; Pherka spoke in a tense, heated voice that was very unlike how Akari remembered her from the dinner in Heartland– indifferent, bored, expressionless.

“—common decency to attend, especially as it was in _these_ gardens.”

“If you think that I’m _sorry_ that he’s dead, you’re a fool,” Alasco replied testily, and there was a clink of a glass being set on the table. “And he wouldn’t even say how, or who—“

“How and who hardly matter,” Pherka shot back. “He’s a wreck, Alasco.”

“How and who matter a great deal, because you know as well as I do that he’s been plotting against the rest of us this whole time. The general’s death is, I am sure, not unrelated.”

Akari, who had been contemplating leaving and coming back in a few hours when the two lords had left, froze. The general’s death? She knew of very few Barian military leaders, and only one name occurred to her at that moment.

_General Mizael?_

There had been a ceremony in the gardens the other day – or so she had been informed later, since the window in her room did not look out over the gardens – but she hadn’t thought much of it. She wanted nothing to do with Barian ceremonies; for all she knew, they had been sacrificing children to Don Thousand out in the gardens. She wouldn’t exactly put it past her father-in-law to agree to something like that.

“—as if you have never plotted either,” Pherka was saying. “I don’t think you realize just how much alike you and Vector are.”

“Vector had the Tsukumo son at his mercy, with the perfect excuse to kill him, and did nothing about it. He had the entire Astralite royal family on its knees, and failed to kill them all. He talks a grand scheme, but he is inefficient.”

“And what makes you so much more efficient?” Pherka’s voice was strained.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Akari’s nails dug into the soft wood of the doorframe.

“I’ll take this up with Polara at the next meeting.”

“You have nothing on me, Pherka.”

“I’m sure I’ll find something.”

It was true then, Akari realized – the Barian lords were fighting amongst themselves. It wasn’t a wishful fantasy that Chris and his brothers had dreamed up as a half-assed excuse to rebel. It wasn’t just Alasco and Vector, or Vector and Durbe, or Durbe and Alasco; it was all of them, each Barian lord with their own agenda, and each willing to backstab the others in order to further it. There was something _here_ – they had a legitimate advantage over the Barian lords now. Pit any of them against another and watch the empire crumble from the top down.

She was so lost in thought that it took her a moment to realize that the lords had finished their conversation, and she was too late to hide herself when Alasco shoved open the door.

They stared at each other, Akari forcing herself to keep looking into his green eyes. Each second that passed caused her lungs to constrict until she became light-headed from the inadequate air intake. She swallowed.

 _Gods_ , it pissed her off – that she was so terrified of this monster that even looking at him sent her into a panic. Worse yet, Pherka seemed to have disappeared, leaving Akari alone with the Barian responsible for her father’s death, her mother’s heartbreak, her brother’s grief; it was Alasco, she had come to realize, who was responsible for everything that had happened to her family.

Akari was almost as terrified at Alasco as she was at herself for wanting to be the one to kill _him_.

“Lady Arclight,” he said in a crisp voice. “I haven’t seen you in a few days. Or your husband, for that matter. Where is he?”

She pressed her lips together, in part to mask the trembling and in part out of defiance.

“A lot quieter when there’s no one around to bail you out, aren’t you?” Alasco reached up and shoved her by the shoulder until she hit the wall. She clenched her shaking fists. “My God, if the others weren’t so adamant about keeping you alive I would have killed you long ago.”

She opened her mouth to reply – _I can tell you care_ so much _about what the others want_ – but no sound left her and she clenched her teeth together instead.

Over Alasco’s shoulder, at the end of the hall, she saw a man lift a hand, and there was a glint of purple.

Her hand mimicked it, and it took Akari a terrified second to realize _I’m not doing this_.

A sharp jab—

—right into Alasco’s stomach.

He grunted, doubled over; Akari was too stunned to move until it was too late – Alasco grabbed her by the neck and shoved her roughly into the wall with a powerful grip. She whimpered, head smashing into the wood, and just as her already fragile breaths were beginning to cause her headache to turn into a near-blackout – gods, she couldn’t breathe; was he really going to have his way, would she really let her father’s killer take her life, too? – Alasco reached toward his waist.

“I don’t care what the others say anymore,” he spat, “I am going to kill you right—“

A slender hand gripped Alasco’s wrist firmly. Akari could see a glint of pink, and the grip around her throat lessened slightly. “Lord Alasco, please remove your hand from our sister.”

_Sis…ter…?_

“This little bitch attacked me first,” Alasco all but screamed, and an unamused laugh came from behind the man holding Alasco’s wrist.

“We came down to have some breakfast and all we see is a Barian Emperor choking our poor, defenseless sister against the wall.”

Part of Akari registered the insult, but the sharp gasps of air she managed to intake were insufficient to say anything.

“She hit me!”

A second hand reached out and pried Alasco’s fingers from her neck. She sucked in too much air too quickly and coughed instead, sliding along the wall to the floor.

“Come now Lord Alasco, do you expect us to believe that this human woman assaulted you so much that you felt the need to strangle her? Did _you_ see her do anything like that?”

“Not at all, Brother.”

Akari placed a hand to her throat and forced herself to take steady breaths. Her neck burned from where Alasco’s hand had been. She was still dizzy and her head was killing her, but she could register now who her rescuers were.

“Where’s Chris?” she managed to croak out, and Mihael took her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. She swayed, the room spinning around her, and she nearly fell into the wall again.

Thomas took her other arm to steady her, but his attention was fixed on Alasco. “Our father will not be pleased to hear that you have assaulted his daughter-in-law.”

Alasco straightened his robes and shot Akari a look that told her clearly that she would be dead on the floor had the Arclight brothers shown up at that minute. “I’m sure your father also would not be happy to find out that his sons have been sneaking out of the palace on their own,” he said in a dangerously quiet voice.

Thomas shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “We’re just looking for Prince Astral. Since, with all the resources of the Barian Empire at your disposal, _you_ seem incapable of tracking him down yourselves.”

Alasco’s jaw clenched. Without another word, he vanished.

“Good bye to you, too, Lord Asshole,” Thomas muttered, leading Akari down the hall with Mihael’s help.

“I almost find myself missing Lord Durbe,” Mihael agreed. “He was hardly pleasant to be around, but at least it was because he was brooding and not because he was violent.”

 “Where is – where is Chris?” They reached a staircase. Akari tugged free of her brothers-in-law and grabbed the banister to hold herself upright. Her dizziness was subsiding but she still felt disoriented. “I need to—“ An unpleasant thought occurred to her. She could barely protect herself against Alasco, so what about – “Oh gods, Gran…“

“You need to rest, Lady Akari,” Mihael interrupted, throwing out an arm to catch her as she made for the stairs leading to the kitchens.

“I’m not leaving my grandmother,” she protested, grabbing him by the wrist. Her fingers touched the gem embedded in his bracelet. Mihael pulled his hand away as though struck by lightning.

Chris had that reaction too, when she touched his bracelet at their wedding. He’d pulled his hands away so quickly he’d almost upended their ceremonial wine, and then he’d forced her into a blood oath.

“Your grandmother will be fine,” Mihael said faintly. “Lord Alasco won’t…” He trailed off, touching his gem with a deep frown.

“He’s a coward,” Thomas finished, eying his brother pensively. “He won’t attack someone when there are others around, and your grandmother sleeps in the— Hey!”

Akari reached for Thomas’s gem, which she realized now was the same purple glint she had seen at the end of the hallway before she had unwillingly punched Alasco in the stomach. “What are these?” She was not entirely convinced that her grandmother would remain safe – it did make sense, that Alasco wouldn’t attack someone physically incapable of fighting back, especially when surrounded by dozens of servants at any moment – but her mind had seized on this opportunity to figure out something she had wondered about this family ever since she’d been forced to be a part of it. Her grandmother would be safe for now, right? “You all have one. What are they?”

“None of your business,” Thomas said at exactly the moment Mihael said “Our life forces.”

“Fuck,” Thomas muttered, rubbing his face.

“She is part of our family, Brother,” Mihael pointed out. “I think she deserves to know.”

“Deserves to know what?” Akari looked from one brother to the other. “Did the Barians give them to you? Is that how you can—“

“Shut up,” Thomas hissed, and it was his turn to grab her by the wrist. “For the gods’ sakes, just shut up.”

“Brother,” Mihael said, more urgently this time. “We need her to trust us.”

Thomas threw up his hands. “Fine. Fine, I’ll go find Chris and tell him he needs to get back here to deal with the shit he left us in.”

He was gone in an instant, leaving Akari alone with Mihael. The youngest Arclight closed his eyes. Akari waited. She couldn’t push him, now that she had the opportunity to figure out more about them – how they could travel in portals, whether they knew where her brother was – but something bothered her.

_We need her to trust us._

Had the Arclights been using her?

“It is not a pleasant explanation,” Mihael murmured, drawing his eyebrows together. “We should go somewhere private.”

Akari had come downstairs for breakfast but lost her appetite completely. “Yeah. Somewhere other than my room.”

The sun had barely been up an hour and all she wanted to do was go back to sleep and hope to find this entire morning had been a nightmare.

* * *

Ryoga expected Yuma – not this soon, perhaps, but he knew Yuma would make his way back, because Yuma had made him a promise, and Yuma always kept his promises. He expected Yuma to embrace Kotori, to stand passively with his arms around her shoulders as she yelled into his chest about abandoning them, about being _irresponsible_ ; he expected Yuma to kneel at Astral’s feet and ask forgiveness, and for Astral to give it.  


He didn’t expect Astral to refuse.

Undeterred – at least outwardly – Yuma had led them into a part of the forest where the makeshift shelters, lean-tos, and frayed tents were thickest, where men and women with hollow gazes and filthy clothes sat and glared at the newcomers.

They were the bandits that Shark Drake wanted to use as a distraction to ambush Vector, and Yuma was handing them right to it.

 _It seems he’s finally come to his senses,_ the god had said, and Ryoga remained silent. He didn’t know what Yuma had planned, only that he had faith that this plan would work with the minimal cost of human life.

Yuma hardly even looked in Ryoga’s direction for days; he scarcely spoke to anyone but Anna and Kotori and the woman – Reina – who accompanied him, and he spent much of his time alone near his tent, staring at maps and scribbling notes only to throw them in the fire as he shook his head. His behavior meant nothing to Shark Drake, who was too busy cursing the anarchic spirit of the bandits and trying to maintain order, but Ryoga noticed, and yet he could do nothing.

Shark Drake slammed the fragile wooden door shut. As Captain-Commander of this substandard little army – a title Ryoga had long since given up on that Shark Drake insisted on reclaiming – Ryoga deserved the most private quarters. Here, in the middle of the forest, “private” consisted of one of the three cramped, run-down wooden shacks that still had four walls, a roof, and a door. Recent spring rainfalls warped the wood and left behind a powerful musty odor, but Shark Drake needed to be alone when it meditated, and the shack awarded it that privacy.

“They’re shirking their responsibilities,” Shark Drake muttered out loud, ripping off Ryoga’s cloak. It fell to the filthy cot that passed for a bed. “Only in it for profit? Have none of these ungrateful _humans_ ever considered they have duties outside of gold? I am their _commander._ ”

 _They’ve been left on their own for months,_ Ryoga pointed out. _As far as they’re concerned, they have no duty to be loyal to anyone anymore, since their kingdoms are gone._

What was more, none of the ex-soldiers from the Astral Kingdom believed any of the royal family had survived the attack. As Takashi pointed out, and rightly so given the “Rei Shingetsu is a Barian” fiasco, letting them know Astral was alive might turn out disastrous. They couldn’t trust these bandits not to hand the prince over to the one with the most gold, even if that meant giving him to the Barians. Cathy and Kotori slept nearest a disguised Astral’s tent, and Heartland had insisted loudly and obnoxiously that he be allowed the largest and most comfortable shelter or he might “accidentally” let loose their secret.

Gauche and Droite had asked if they could just kill Heartland and save the trouble, and it was perhaps a good thing in this case that Shark Drake was the one answering in place of Ryoga, as it saw more use in Heartland as a uniting figurehead than dead, and Ryoga would have let the assassins have him.

“It’s not a matter of kingdom loyalties anymore.” Shark Drake propped Ryoga’s lance against the wall and settled cross-legged on the cot. “Selling your prince out to the Barians for some money is the most vile betrayal of humanity there is.”

Ryoga laughed. _Oh yes, you’re showing your true colors again. You’re more than willing to shatter our kingdoms as long as it’s to destroy the Barians, but did you maybe consider what happens afterward? What happens to us humans? What are we supposed to do next?_

Shark Drake scowled with Ryoga’s mouth, and it was almost convincingly a look Ryoga might have pulled. But before it could reply, there was a tentative knock at the door. Ryoga felt Shark Drake’s spike of irritation.

“What?”

The door opened. Yuma ducked in through the low doorframe and closed the door behind him. If Shark Drake was irritated before, it was nothing compared to what he felt now.

“I did _not_ say you could come in—“

“I don’t care.” Yuma’s bluntness took Shark Drake aback. It took Ryoga aback, too. “None of these people will do what you want them to do if you continue to treat them like they’re disposable.”

“They are meant to be a diversion—“

“ _They are not disposable_.” Yuma sounded, for the first time in a long time, truly angry. His jaw was set, his fists clenched. “They are human beings. They have families. They have friends. They have suffered enough.”

Shark Drake stood and cleared the short space between them in two strides, until Ryoga was staring into Yuma’s face through narrowed eyes. Shark Drake clenched Ryoga’s jaw so his expression mirrored Yuma’s. “You do not interrupt me.”

“I _will_ interrupt you.” Yuma pulled his shoulders back and lifted his chin defiantly. “The anti-Barian weapons that the Arclights distributed among the rebel group leaders are meant to give them a chance at actually holding off the Barians, not for them to be used as diversion fodder.”

Ryoga laughed – he couldn’t help it. In many ways, Yuma hadn’t changed at all since they were forced to leave their kingdom – he was still stubborn as hell – but Ryoga couldn’t imagine the Yuma of last year talking back to his commanding officer like this. It was… refreshing.

Shark Drake’s temper flared; Ryoga’s hand grabbed the front of Yuma’s cloak and almost instantly released it when something sliced into the palm of his hand. 

“The hell…” Shark Drake growled, examining the shallow cut, and Yuma’s eyes glinted with a strange sort of pride.

Without taking his eyes from Ryoga’s, Yuma pulled the cloak off. Around his neck, half-tucked under his shirt, was a sharp fang necklace.

Ryoga’s necklace.

Shark Drake lifted a hand to Ryoga’s throat, trailing fingers over the bare skin. Ryoga had forgotten himself that Yuma had confiscated the necklace after Ryoga’s attempt to slit his own wrists with it. An unnecessary precaution – Ryoga didn’t have the mental strength to overcome Shark Drake and actually finish the job. Nor, at this time, did he have any desire to die at all.

“That’s mine,” Shark Drake said quietly.

“No.” Yuma draped his cloak over his arm. “It belongs to the Captain-Commander of the Astral Guard.”

“Which is me!”

“No,” Yuma repeated, firmer this time, “you’re only pretending to be.”

Ryoga’s nails dug into the palm of his uninjured hand. _What does he know?_ Shark Drake demanded.

 _More than you think he does_ , Ryoga replied, and it was possibly the most satisfied he’d felt since Shark Drake had merged their souls.

_You didn’t—_

_I did._

Shark Drake exhaled loudly, which ended up sounding more like a muffled scream. “I have reached my wits’ end with both of you.”

“This is _our_ fate and _our_ future at stake,” Yuma said quietly. And then, at the same time Ryoga spoke to Shark Drake, Yuma did as well.

“ _We don’t need you._ ”

Yuma stared right into Ryoga’s eyes and for a moment, Ryoga knew that Yuma was looking only at him.

The corners of Ryoga’s mouth twitched upward. Only for a moment, because Shark Drake’s anger was greater than Ryoga’s willpower, but he had finally managed to control his own body.

And Yuma saw it, because the moment Shark Drake regained control and resumed his scowling, Yuma gave Ryoga a half-smile in return.

“I’ll see you in the morning, _Ryoga_ ,” he said finally, placing careful emphasis on the name, and left without another word.

Shark Drake took slow, shaking breaths – not scared or concerned, but _pissed_ , and as pissed as Ryoga had ever felt the emissary before.

“Did he set me up for this? Did he come here to tell them not to listen to a word that _Ryoga Kamishiro_ had to say so he could gloat to my face?”

 _You know what your problem is?_ Ryoga was almost amused at the emissary’s response.

“You,” Shark Drake spat, sitting stiffly on the cot again.

Ryoga laughed again. _Well, as a  matter of fact, yeah. You’re being an ass, and these people think it’s_ Ryoga Kamishiro _being an ass so they don’t want to listen to him. You don’t understand these people._

_What is your point?_

At least Shark Drake wasn’t talking out loud anymore. _Think about it logically. If Yuma did tell them “you shouldn’t listen to Captain Kamishiro because he only has his own self-interests in mind right now,” and then they saw through your bullshit plan that will probably end up getting them all killed, then you have no right to be surprised when they resist._

Shark Drake was quiet for a minute. Ryoga’s breathing evened out. _I am going to meditate now, so remain silent._

That was fine with Ryoga. Talking to the emissary was, more often than not, akin to talking at a wall, and there was only so far he could wear down the wall before he was worn down himself. He had a few people of his own he wanted to talk to, anyway.

* * *

“You sent for me?”  


Polara didn’t look away from the rain spattering the windowsill and onto the floor. It had gotten worse in the past few days. The clouds were darker, the rain hotter. “Where is Durbe?”

She didn’t need to turn around to sense Ilya’s reluctance; the quiet sigh and lengthy pause were enough. “In his quarters.”

It had been a week. A week, and he still hadn’t left, still hadn’t talked to anyone, refused to say what Mizael had been doing or _why_ or who had killed him. Doubtless on Durbe’s orders, whatever Mizael had done, and now Durbe was feeling the guilt. Loyal allies, especially in the military, were hard to come by. Mizael’s death had dealt Durbe a harsh political blow, one that Durbe would not be able to recover from.

Of course, there were other aspects of Mizael’s death that were likely factors in Durbe’s depressive behavior, and though Polara refused to allow the words to be spoken aloud, she couldn’t help but wonder.

“Here or in Tenjo?”

“Here. He won’t return to Tenjo. I can try—“

“No.” Polara lifted her arm, placing it directly in the stream of hot rain. It left behind red welts; something about the volcanic activity in the region, Durbe had once postulated. Polara would never understand how a logical mind like Durbe’s could succumb so easily to frail emotions. “I will. He’s had enough time to wallow.” She finally tore herself from the window. The welts didn’t vanish; they seemed a brighter red than before. “Get Vector. He said he had something to talk to me about. Tell him to wait here until I return.”

Ilya’s eyes narrowed at Vector’s name but she gave a stiff curtsy and vanished in an instant. She was hiding something too, Polara knew, and she supposed it would have to be her next investigation after dealing with Durbe.

The lords all had quarters in the same wing of the palace, and Durbe’s room was not far from Polara’s. Though a short walk, Polara’s legs were tired by the time she stood at Durbe’s door, and her arm felt like a weight as she knocked three times.

She hated this part of the job.

Predictably, there was no response. She opened the door anyway, and found the lord sitting in a chair by the window, leaning his head against the glass. Scattered on the floor by his feet were several empty bottles, and his hands absently wrung the blood-stained scarf on his lap. He wore the same clothes she had last seen him in; only instead of a crisp white they were wrinkled and spotted in off-color blotches, and hung loosely from his emaciated frame. Red blemishes stood out on his pale face and the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes looked as though they had been painted there.

It was normal for Durbe to hole himself up, immersed in research about God knew what, so his request for solitude was nothing unusual in itself. When Alit and Gilag’s bodies had been found, he spent an entire afternoon in the Arclight gardens, where he’d insisted they be buried, staring at their grave markers with a remarkably forced show of self-control. But it was different, with Mizael; he had refused to let anyone touch his general’s body, even going so far as lowering the body into the grave himself, next to the resting bodies of Durbe’s other faithful generals. He had cried silently throughout the ceremony, body wracked with visible tremors, and when time came to liquefy Mizael’s soul gem, Durbe had insisted that he would do it himself. But he wouldn’t do it in front of anyone else, despite tradition and the priest’s protests, and he had screamed at the others like a child with a temper.

 _You rejected him in his life. You scarred his name and his body and called him a freak. Not a single person here deserves to witness his soul’s return to Barian World. Not a damn_ one _of you!_

He had quite literally fallen apart.

Polara had never liked Mizael; he had been crude and disrespectful, and it always amazed her how much Durbe let him get away with. But she liked Durbe well enough, admired his hard work even if he often seemed secretive – and who didn’t, in light of recent events – so seeing his normally impassive exterior collapse so completely under the grief of his general’s death was painful to watch.

She toed one of the ceramic mugs overturned on the floor. As it clattered against the stone, Durbe finally seemed aware that someone was in the room with him, and turned his head slowly toward her.

“The human body isn’t really designed for this much hard liquor,” she remarked, sniffing the air gingerly. It was a vile, sour combination of whiskey, spiced rum, and gin.

He leaned his head against the window again. “I’ve never been able to get drunk,” he rasped through dry, bleeding lips.

“Lucky you.”

“It’s a goddamn curse.” Durbe rubbed at his eyes with the palm of his hand. “Just like everything else.”

Polara sat on the edge of the unmade bed. “Do you think the rest of us have never lost allies?” She crossed her arms. “Even when Alit and Gilag died you didn’t act like this.”

He didn’t answer.

“What was Mizael doing, Durbe? Was it on your orders?”

His eyes flickered toward his hands, wringing his scarf.

“I’ve given you plenty of time.” Polara dropped her forced tone of sympathy. “You have work to do. We have rebellions to put down and laws to pass and order to maintain all across this damn continent—“ She closed her eyes. “I’m going to leave this room to meet with Vector. When I come back, whether you want to or not, you are coming back with the rest of us and you _will_ do your duties.”

She didn’t make it to the door before it opened. It was Vector.

“Doobles!” Vector’s tone was full of barely concealed glee, face masked poorly in sympathy. “So sorry to hear about Miza.” He held out a misshapen lump of yellowish yarn that might have been an attempt at some article of clothing. Durbe turned his gaze on it, then to Vector. “A gift, to commemorate his life and his soulday.”

“Get out.” Durbe barely moved his lips.

Vector didn’t even seem surprised at the response. Instead, he plopped onto the arm of the chair and pet Durbe’s head the way Alasco might pet his dogs. Even looking at the way Durbe’s face trembled with a blend of humiliation and anger, nostrils flaring and eyes twitching uncontrollably, embarrassed Polara.

“Vector—“

“Just offering my dearest sympathies to my favorite _little_ _Barian_ ,” Vector said conversationally, and Durbe clenched his hands so tightly his knuckles turned white. “It must be hard to lose your soulmate, huh?”

“Get _out_.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t know, but I hear when your soulmate dies, it’s like part of you dies, too.” Vector propped his chin up on his fist.

“ _Vector_ ,” Polara repeated sharply, and she yanked Vector by the elbow from Durbe’s chair.

He cast a disgusted look at her before ripping his arm away, tossing the yarn on Durbe’s lap. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for this, Durbe?” His voice no longer held exaggerated politeness. “Thirty _years_. I knew Mizael before you ever set foot in that training camp. He never listened to a single officer. He got whippings daily for insubordination. I still remember the day he was branded – they strapped him down in front of _everyone_ and he screamed the most _disgusting_ things at Koche while they did it.” He leaned down. “But you know what made it all worth it?”

Durbe turned his tired eyes once more toward Vector’s face.

“Watching him cry.”

“Hallway, _now_ ,” Polara ordered, pointedly ignoring Durbe’s body tremble with silent sobs.

Vector was halfway out the door before he called back into the room, apparently still not done twisting the knife into Durbe’s heart. “Mizael’s tears were so rare… I hope he shared them with you at least once. They were truly magical.”

Polara grabbed him by the back of his collar, threw him into the wall, and slammed Durbe’s door behind her. “What the _hell_ was that about _,_ Vector?”

He straightened his robes. “Durbe and Mizael were—“

Polara bit back a groan. _This again?_ “My God, if I have to hear one more of you say they were having an affair—“

“It went far deeper than them being pillow friends, Polara.” Vector pulled a folded wad of papers out of his pocket. “They were committing treason from the day they met.”

She glanced between the papers and Vector’s face. It was difficult in the best of times to ascertain whether Vector was stirring up trouble for the sake of his lust for drama or if he was serious. His face was set in an uncharacteristically grim expression, eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed.

To buy some time, she let him continue to hold the papers out. “How did you come to this conclusion?”

He rustled the papers. “Everything is in here. You’ll want to look through these. And you’ll want to strip him of his titles immediately.”

“We’re not in the business of taking titles from other lords without a full vote,” Polara said irritably, snatching them from his hands. She was _sick_ of Vector trying to micromanage everyone else’s business, especially since _she_ was the senior lord on the council – whereas Vector was a low-level mage who had only become a lord through the grace of God and the assent of four of the remaining six lords – Polara was not among them – after Liam’s apparent suicide.

At this point, she wasn’t convinced Vector didn’t have something to do with Liam’s death.

“Fine. Call a council. And have a seat – there are some things in there that will stun you.”

Vector turned on his heel, vanishing instantly into a portal. Polara glared at the floor for a moment before shifting her attention to the papers in her hand. She didn’t _want_ to read anything that might paint Durbe as a traitor, especially not when it came from Vector. But she was the leader. If there was the chance that Durbe had betrayed them, she needed to know, and he needed to be held accountable.

Not to mention she needed to accept the fact that she had failed to uncover a plot inside her own ranks. How many more was she unaware of?

 _Might as well make myself comfortable_ , she mused, and she returned to her quarters, locking the door behind her.

* * *

Faker forced his way past three Healers who tried to bar him from entering the ward. First the Barians took Haruto and then Kaito disappeared – Faker was terrified he would never see either son again. Both sons were sick, maybe dying, maybe _dead_ and it was _his fault…_ Kaito ran off because of him, Haruto was taken because _he_ had been too weak to stand up to the Barians; Kaito should never have had to sacrifice his soul for Haruto because his father was too much a coward to do it himself. He had been a terrible father. Kaito must have hated him for that.  


“Lord Faker, please—“

“Kaito!” Faker ignored the Healer and knelt at Kaito’s bedside. His son lay perfectly still, not breathing. His hair was mussed, his clothes covered in dirt and dried blood, but he had an iron grip on the sword in his hand, as though it had somehow fused to his skin in that position. “Oh gods, Kaito… What happened to you?”

“Lord Faker, we need to—“

“Why isn’t he breathing?” Faker hadn’t broken down in front of anyone since his wife’s funeral all those years ago. But he found he couldn’t stop the tears from running down his cheeks as he stared at the lifeless form of his firstborn son. “He—he’s not—“

The Healer gripped his arm and pulled him to his feet. “We’re not sure what happened or how, but his heart is still beating, so…“

With an anguished cry, Faker tore himself free and threw himself at his son, who didn’t move at all. Kaito wasn’t dead, Kaito couldn’t die; his last words to Kaito had been harsh and accusatory and he had to tell his son that he loved him, that he always had, but—

Nearby, a Healer screamed and dropped a bowl of water to the ground. The sound of shattered pottery jolted Faker upright, and then he saw the reason for the Healer’s scream.

Kaito’s eyes were open.

The blue mark around Kaito’s eye was gone. Both eyes were a deep, blood red, staring at the ceiling with a chilling lack of emotion.

Faker scrambled off the bed and stepped back. Kaito’s gaze followed him.

“Don’t pretend you always loved me when you’re so close to losing the little you have left.” His voice was as harsh and emotionless as his stare. “You’re ashamed of me.”

The Healer had backed away from the shards of the bowl, back toward the wide window overlooking the river. The waning moon took up most of the view.

It was a blood moon.

Kaito sat up, never taking his gaze from his father’s, and slowly lowered his legs over the side of the bed. “I see it. You’re afraid of me. You should be, after letting them take Haruto—“

“Kaito, where is he? Where is Haruto?” Faker’s voice trembled. “What happened to you? Where have you—“

Kaito tilted his head. “General Mizael…”

Without another word, his body convulsed and his knees collapsed. Before Faker knew what was happening, the sword clanged to the ground and Kaito had fallen into his arms, gasping for breath; his hands clawed at the front of Faker’s shirt. His eyes opened again, wide and terrified and _blue—_

“Haru…to,” he rasped. Tears filled his eyes. Faker’s did, too. “I… he’s… he… I…”

He screamed.

Faker squeezed his eyes shut against the sound – it wasn’t just Kaito now, but a chorus of screams echoing in the Healing ward – magnified tenfold by the sound of bowls falling to the ground, of… of glass shattering, of footsteps and shouts for help and…

“Haruto! Haruto! _Haruto!_ ” Kaito’s body thrashed in Faker’s arms, each raw scream of Haruto’s name filled with more agony than the last. “Oh gods! I—it was… _Haruto!_ ”

The final scream drowned out everything, or maybe it had deafened Faker; he felt something in the air, like a powerful gust of wind, except a thousand times stronger than anything Faker had felt before. He didn’t open his eyes – he couldn’t – because Kaito’s body had seized as he screamed, and then…

Faker forced himself to open his eyes.

The infirmary was a wreck. The windows were shattered, blown out from the inside, the beds knocked over, water all over the floor. Three of the four Healers lay unconscious against the walls and window, and the fourth… There was blood on the edges of the window’s shattered remains. Kaito dangled limply in his arms now, tears leaking from his closed eyes.

Faker whimpered, and allowed himself to cry with his only living son.

 


	65. Healing Duel

The halls of Arclight were silent, save for the soft _click, click_ of Lord Christopher’s shoes on the marble floor. He couldn’t find either of his brothers, his wife, any of the Barians, or even a servant to ask where everyone was.

 _Fresh air,_ he decided; that was what he needed. A walk in the gardens, a little of the late afternoon sun. It would be a relief from the heavy stench of decaying wood, unwashed bodies, and poorly concealed human waste that filled his nostrils when he visited the camp. He didn’t know where to find whoever was in charge of the poorly managed rabble, but whoever it was needed to be replaced immediately.

Not to mention that Lord Heartland was, as usual, being very difficult. He wasn’t in charge of the unwashed masses – he made that perfectly clear, and Chris suspected it was because Heartland would never take credit for managing as ill-behaved and unsanitary a lot as this – but he was offering his services in an _advisory_ capacity until he could kill Lord Ilya and reclaim his rule. To whom, Heartland wouldn’t say, and Chris had spent most of the early morning trying to figure out who _was_ in charge. One name he heard a few times was that of Captain-Commander Ryoga Kamishiro, but he knew that no Dragoon commander would ever let his camp get in this condition.

Though, maybe he wasn’t paying close enough attention to the important things. The guiltiest part of him was searching that camp for Kaito, because if Ryoga Kamishiro was there, then maybe…

He made it to the entry hall without meeting another person, but his cursed luck would fail him once again.

“Good morning, Christopher.”

He forced himself to swallow, set his jaw, and took a breath before turning to his father. “It is afternoon, Father, but good day to you as well.”

“Is it already afternoon?” Byron adjusted his spectacles and peered up at Chris’s face. “Hard to tell, you know, when you’re in the dungeons all day, mm?”

Chris didn’t want to know why his father had been in the dungeons all day, but he couldn’t leave without at least pretending to converse, or his father would deem it disrespectful. “Is… there someone in the dungeons whom you were visiting all day, Father?”

Byron’s eyes widened as though he were about to tell his son a secret. “Oh yes.”

Chris waited, but his father didn’t seem to have anything to add, so he nodded and took a hesitant step to the side so he could walk around. His father mirrored his step, refusing to let Chris pass.

“Aren’t you going to ask me who?” his father pressed.

 _I neither care nor want to know,_ Chris thought grimly, but he asked the question his father demanded he ask.

His father leaned closer. Once, Chris would have considered his father a striking man. He had something of Thomas in his mischievous eyes, Mihael’s smile, and many of Chris’s features, from his cheekbones to his long, thick hair. It was all unrecognizable now. Chris saw nothing of himself in his father’s mad eyes, and he prayed to the gods who had long since abandoned him that he would never be like _that_.

“It’s a secret,” his father whispered conspiratorially, and laughed. Something of Chris’s irritation must have shown on his face, because his father stopped abruptly and leaned closer. “You’re so serious, Christopher. I never see you smile anymore.”

“There’s nothing to smile about,” Chris said without thinking, and his father’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re alive, you’re in good health, and you are free to do as you like. What is there not to smile about, Christopher?”

Chris clenched his hands. “I’ve had my soul taken out of my body and been forced to bow to the Barians, _Father._ I hardly count that as _alive, free, and in good health_.”

He shouldn’t have talked back. He knew it as soon as the first word was out of his mouth, and now he would await the consequences.

His father’s expression didn’t change as he slapped Chris across the face. Chris struggled to keep his face blank, not to give his father any indication that it stung in every way.

“Do you know who I was talking to in the dungeons, Christopher?” His father’s face was emotionless now. “ _You_.”

Chris stopped breathing.

“Don’t think I never noticed you and Kaito Tenjo. Don’t think I never suspected anything when you would disappear and your brothers had to lie for you.” He leaned closer. The madness in his eyes had dulled to a complete seriousness. “Don’t think I wouldn’t hesitate to throw my own son into the dungeons for his crimes. I swear to God, I would do it in a heartbeat.”

He shoved his way past Chris, who didn’t breathe again until he heard the distant slamming of a door.

Chris took several unsteady, shallow breaths, willing himself to keep the tears back. For a wonder, they did, though it didn’t stop the pain in his heart. His father hit him. Fathers… didn’t _do_ that to their children. The Barians turned his father into this _thing_ , did this to his family, and it was hardly any consolation at all knowing that those same Barian generals who were responsible for it all were now dead and buried just beyond the heavy doors leading out to the courtyard. Their deaths did nothing to make things right.

Yuma Tsukumo was right, in a way, he reflected, pushing his way out into the sunlight. Nothing ever completely filled the emptiness of loss.

He found his wife on the other side of the gardens from the graves of Lord Durbe’s generals, a practice sword in her hand. He stood next to a rosebush, watching as she swung her sword at an imaginary foe. Her basic form wasn’t terrible, he noted, but she leaned too much into her forward thrusts, which left her completely open if her opponent dodged or if she failed to deliver a finishing blow. It took too long to get back into position. He couldn’t help but smile faintly; Kaito had once been this way, too.

“Hey.”

She jumped back and spun around, hands gripping the sword hilt tightly. She relaxed an inch when she saw who it was. “Oh. It’s you.”

“You sound so excited to see me.”

She turned her back on him and resumed her practice, each stroke more forceful than the last until she slammed the sword forward so hard that she stumbled after it and had to grab a bench to steady herself. A cat that had curled up on it for a warm afternoon nap hissed at her and darted away into the bushes.

He didn’t move.

“Your brothers told me,” she said, still not looking at him. “About those bracelets.”

Chris’s fingers brushed his soul gem lightly. It was only a matter of time before she found out, he supposed. “What did they tell you?”

“They’re your souls.” She didn’t bother to mask the revulsion in her voice, nor did she seem to be able to stop herself from shivering visibly. “Gods, Chris, I thought they were… you know. Symbols of your betrayal. Not your actual, real… souls.” She finally half-turned to face him. “Why didn’t you just tell me yourself, instead of me finding out through your brothers?”

The gem warmed at his touch. He gazed at it, trying to see something more than a simple stone. He wished he could see the state of his soul, could see into it and feel for a certainty that he was making amends for his sins by using his powers to save his race.  But he didn’t. It was only a stone, and he was left wondering. “I don’t know,” he murmured, and he pulled his fingers away from it. “Maybe I’m trying too hard to pretend I didn’t make stupid choices.”

“No amount of pretending is going to make it not true.”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. She was right, of course.

Akari frowned suddenly at him, tilting her head so she was looking at the left side of the face where his father had struck him. “Chris,” she murmured, grabbing him by the chin, presumably so she could better take a look at his cheek, “did someone hit you?”

Of _course_ it had left a mark. “It’s nothing—“

“Your face is swollen.” Her lips tightened. “Stop _lying_ to me. I’m sick and fucking _tired_ of the lies.”

Chris exhaled slowly and took her by the elbow, leading her in silence toward the bench she had leaned on earlier. She let him, though when he gestured for her to sit, she scowled at him until he sat first. She waited, arms crossed.

He supposed he had no choice. She was right; he _had_ lied one too many times, even though she was on his side. The blood oath he had forced her to make to him at their wedding had not been reciprocal. She had to remain loyal to him, yet all she was promised in return was that, within his power, her family would not be harmed. He never promised to be loyal to _her_.

Maybe it was a mistake not to show her the trust she gave him, however reluctantly she did it.

“It was my father,” he said finally, and she lowered herself slowly to the bench.

“Why?”

“I…” He hesitated. “I didn’t think before I spoke.”

 _That’s hardly a surprise,_ he expected her to say, but her expression softened. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”  His father’s chilling words echoed in Chris’s head, how he would never hesitate to put Chris in the dungeons. “He wasn’t always this way, Akari. He used to love me and my brothers.”

“A father should never raise a hand to a child,” Akari murmured. “No matter what the situation. My father always said that expressing quiet disappointment was a more effective tool than violence or threats.”

Chris agreed. It was a philosophy his father had believed in too, once. “If I may… how did your family react to your father’s death?”

Akari thumbed the hilt of the practice sword. “After… after my father disappeared, it left my mother heartbroken, because no one brought a body back at first and all she’d been told by the Captain-Commander of the Astral Guard was that chances were slim that he _would_ come back. She went days without eating, hardly slept. Just… stared into space…” She trailed off, staring at the roses across from the path.

When Chris’s own mother had died of illness, his father had done everything to hold the family together. The sons were deeply grieved; Mihael was reserved, Thomas would act out in anger, and Chris remembered feeling empty without his mother there to kiss him goodnight. But he had lost only a mother. His father was there, and he cared for and loved his sons.

Once upon a time.

“And then I found out… Alasco did it. My father is dead because of him, and then my m—“ She choked back a sob. “Gods… I hate him. I hate him with all my heart and I want to kill him myself, but I’m… scared.”

He didn’t speak.

“And now I’ve lost my brother. Gods, I never wanted Yuma to suffer that way. He was such a happy child…” Her voice quivered. She turned on the bench so her face wasn’t visible to Chris. “The Barians took that from him.” He knew what she meant. The Barians and the Astral Guard and the Captain-Commander had stripped whatever was left of his innocence. Lord Durbe had accused Yuma of being a killer, and Akari would never forget the picture in her mind as Durbe recounted the terrible things that Yuma had done. She had admitted as much to Chris before. “If I hadn’t let him go…”

“There’s no point blaming yourself for the actions of your brother,” Chris said softly. He understood this all too well. “He is free to make his own future.”

They sat in silence, no noise in the gardens save for the bees zipping from flower to flower, or the occasional palace cat chasing squeaking rats under hedges. Chris thought about breaking the silence by excusing himself, but always talked himself out of it. Out here, in the gardens, he could forget that his life was a sham, his marriage a cover-up for his sins. Though he had lost his closest friend of all, at least here he could take comfort in knowing – or at least believing – that he had gained another friend.

But before he could speak, Akari did. “Chris.”

“Mmm?”

She stood up, looking down at him intently. “Teach me more. I need to know how to fight.”

It would have been easy to tell her he was too weary, too emotionally exhausted from the encounter with his father, but the fire in her eyes changed his mind. “All right, then.”

She lifted her eyebrows in surprise, so it was clear to him that she had expected him to refuse. But she took her position a few feet away and waited for him to pick up one of the spare practice swords she had brought with. They had awful balance – he never would have fought a serious fight with a sword this unbalanced – but for the purpose they served, it would do.

He stood relaxed, sword down, whereas she stood tensely with her sword raised in both hands to chest level. That would be her first mistake in real combat, and possibly a fatal one.

“The enemy should never know you are afraid,” he said calmly.

“I’m not afraid,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Relax your sword arm.”

She cast him a glare but her shoulders slacked an inch.

Without warning, he took a single step forward and jabbed at her open torso. She jumped back in surprise, but that was only the first strike. He reached out again, calmly, with his free arm behind his back, and caught her in the side with the blunt tip of his practice sword.

She grunted in frustration. “You didn’t even tell me we were starting, you ass.”

“Your enemy will never tell you when he is about to attack,” Chris said, stepping forward again. This time, she met his strike, and the light metal blades _clacked_ off one another. “You have to be constantly on the lookout.”

He had her on the defensive; no matter how hard she swung to parry his strikes, he would swiftly reorient himself and try again.

“You’re wearing yourself out,” he told her, backing her into a narrow corridor of hedges. A dead end. “You’re focusing too hard on my movements and not enough on your own. Look around you.”

Face gleaming with sweat, she shot a quick glance backward. Her jaw tightened at the sight of the closed, thorny hedge behind her.

“It doesn’t take power to parry.” As he closed the gap, she stepped further back into the hedge. “It takes speed.” He pressed the flat sword tip into her chest. “To block my attack, it doesn’t take all your strength. Move. Use your enemy’s strength to guide your own.” He nudged her sword with his to demonstrate the fluid movement. She followed suit, brows furrowed in concentration. 

Finally, she rested her sword tip down and leaned on it, taking in deep, slow breaths. She was trying to scowl but failed. “Who taught you?”

The question took him by surprise. “What?”

“Well, you didn’t teach yourself, did you? You’re too good to be self-taught. Who did?”

“I…” He frowned. It wasn’t something he thought about. Being a swordsman was something as natural to him as walking. He never remembered having a single real mentor, one who pushed him to his limits the way he did to Kaito—

 _It’s best not to think about him anymore,_ he told himself firmly. The gods only knew where he was or what happened to him.

…but thinking about Kaito reminded him of something else.

“I think I just picked it up from observing,” he murmured.

Akari’s eyebrows shot up skeptically. “You don’t _pick up_ being this good, not unless you were observing, like, Dragoons or something on a regular basis.”

She probably meant it as a joke.

It wasn’t.

One of the perks of being the eldest son of the largest kingdom on the continent was that Chris often travelled with his parents from a young age, visiting different kingdoms and villages. Though Dragoons were secretive and distrustful of outsiders, his mother worked out a peaceable relationship with them that allowed her to enter the boundaries a few times a year to discuss any issues brewing on the northern Arclight border, which bordered both the Dragoons and the Barian Kingdom. A tiny buffer zone, but it was important strategically. Chris wasn’t allowed to train with the Dragoons, but they never said anything about watching them. And Chris did, from a young age; he watched, memorized, took mental notes on their sword form and technique.

If they had known, they would doubtless have put an end to it immediately.

“Chris?”

He sighed in frustration. “Look, I was young. I don’t remember where I picked up most of it.” At another of her scowls, he shook his head. “Yes, I did observe Dragoons when I would visit with my mother, but it was so infrequently, never, actually, after she—“ He closed his eyes. _Died,_ he finished silently. Their last visit had been strangely prophetic, as though the Dragoon woman who had pressed a small journal into Chris’s mother’s hands before vanishing had _known_ Lady Arclight would soon pass.

The Legend of the Dragon, but it didn’t do Chris any good to decipher it later. The Dragoons refused to admit anyone but Lady Arclight into their village. And she was gone.

“What do you know about them?” Her tone was casual enough, but he felt her eagerness to learn something about a race long since dead. “What happened to them? Dad said the Barians invaded, but—“

“No one knows how they got in there,” Chris said heavily. “It was sealed against Barians. Only someone from the inside could have… let them in.”

Which, he reflected, would never have happened.

“There are a few who survived,” Akari pressed. “I met one when Dad…” She trailed off. He waited for her to regain her composure. It didn’t take long, this time. “Anyway, the Captain-Commander… can’t remember the name…”

“Ryoga Kamishiro,” Chris supplied.

To his surprise, Akari shook her head, eyes squinted as she glanced skyward. “Nah, it was a woman.”

“Ah. I don’t recall a name either, I’m sorry.”

Akari shrugged. “She was the one who told me about… about Dad. Said there wasn’t a body but they were looking…” She cleared her throat and abruptly looked up. “Wait, it was the woman that Yuma—“

“It doesn’t matter,” Chris interrupted, suddenly recalling the woman's face. “She has been dead for over a year, and the only living Dragoons now are the Kamishiro twins.”

She was silent for a moment, face lined in worry. Finally, she glanced up at him. “They said they were his friends.” Her voice quivered. “Are they taking care of him?”

Chris remembered Yuma lying on that makeshift pallet deep in the woods, knocked unconscious as he ran from Captain Kamishiro. He remembered the way Yuma vowed never to take another life. He didn’t want to fight this war.

Too bad it wasn’t his choice anymore.

“I think he’s taking care of them,” Chris said simply, and Akari nodded in resignation.

“I miss him.”

“I know.”

“Will I be able to see him again?”

Yuma’s plan had been to march on Arclight first, Chris recalled. The women Yuma had been travelling with had confirmed that much. But had Yuma’s change of heart as he ran from the Arclights changed that? Would he still focus on Arclight? Or would he turn his attention elsewhere, to Heartland or to Tenjo or to Astral?

No one in that camp seemed to know anything more than that Captain Kamishiro planned to retake Astral Kingdom. But he did know one thing: Yuma was the only one who vocally opposed the captain’s plans, for whatever reason. If the captain wanted to retake Astral, Yuma would certainly not focus there first.

He was unpredictable, Chris mused, so he would just have to wait and see where the winds of change would blow. Instead of answering, he led her out of the hedge, hand on her back. He didn’t know if Akari would see her brother again, and she knew it.

* * *

 

Sleep eluded Yuma night after night, and that night was no exception. Sometimes they were so real that Kotori or Anna or Takashi had to shake him awake because he didn’t know it _wasn’t_ really happening again, and the feel of his father’s sword in his hands was all too real. Other times, he wouldn’t even allow himself to close his eyes, because he knew that closing his eyes would force him back to those times he wished he could forget and knew he never would.

He wondered if the nightmares would _ever_ stop.

It didn’t help that the uncertainty permeating the camp  – the paranoia and distrust and soldiers with no loyalty – only amplified Yuma’s anxieties. There were so few people he could trust anymore.

He threw the thin, frayed blanket from his body and crawled out from under the low-hanging tent, pulling his father’s sword with him. There were voices arguing, too far to make out words, but close enough that he recognized the sound of one voice clearly.

Yuma’s hand clenched his sword tightly and followed the voice of Ryoga Kamishiro.

Ryoga – Shark Drake – stood in the middle of camp, and now that Yuma was close enough, he could make out some of Ryoga’s words. He was berating a young soldier; for what, Yuma couldn’t tell, because his own gaze was fixed on the soldier’s face.

No, not a soldier. Not even a bandit. He was a _child_ , maybe no more than fifteen years old, but with the hollow eyes of a veteran soldier. And Shark Drake was using Ryoga’s voice to berate, threaten, mock… a child. And Yuma realized, with a painful jolt to the heart, that this boy was one of hundreds, maybe thousands, of children that Shark Drake wanted to use as battle fodder. This boy was one of hundreds, thousands, who had lost loved ones to the Barians, who had been forced to grow up, to fight, to kill at a time in his life when he should have been playing with friends in the forests and doing work on the farm. Yuma recognized the look in the boy’s eyes, because Yuma saw it in his own each time he saw his reflection.

No, Yuma decided, he would not stand here and watch this any longer.

“Captain-Commander Ryoga Kamishiro,” he interrupted quietly, drawing the captain’s gaze from the child to him. He held out his sword, and it trembled. “For your title, I…”

_You’re going to wake soon, Yuma. And when you do, promise that you’ll fight me. I’ll fight as long as I can, but we can’t let Shark Drake win. No matter what._

Yuma took a breath, steadied his hand. “For your title, I challenge you to a duel.”

The young bandit made a strangled noise of protest, but Yuma shook his head to silence him, eyes fixed on Ryoga’s face. Shark Drake’s expression was one of mild surprise, lips pressed tightly together.

“Interesting,” Shark Drake said softly. “What are your terms, Yuma Tsukumo?”

Without taking his eyes off Ryoga, Yuma gestured toward the young man. “Kurosaki, isn’t it?”

“Y…es?”

“Go get the Healer Kotori and eight witnesses.” Yuma swallowed, trying his best to mask his anxiety. He still didn’t know if this would work, or which of the four outcomes he could think of would be the endgame to this duel, but he had cast the gauntlet. It was time to see how well he could tempt Fate. “This will be a fight with our choice in weapons. Each of us will have to pull a piece of cloth from the other’s belt. The one who gets it first wins, and will receive or retain the title of Captain-Commander.”

Shark Drake looked almost disappointed, and crossed Ryoga’s arms. “Is that all? A game of keep-away?”

“If you so desire, you can pull the cloth from my dead body,” Yuma said quietly.

“Interesting,” Shark Drake said again, and ran a finger over Ryoga’s chin. “What makes you think I will kill you? We have plans for you yet.”

To his right, Yuma saw the bandit Kurosaki, still unmoving. What Yuma had to say to Ryoga Kamishiro was private, and at any rate, ten witnesses needed to be present before the succession duel could begin. “Kurosaki, please get Lady Kotori and eight others. Now.”

Kurosaki backed away, his slow steps turning into a trot as he hurried back through the camp. Yuma waited until he was out of earshot before stepping closer to Ryoga.

“I made him a promise,” Yuma said in a low voice. “I would stop you, no matter what.”

“You wouldn’t kill me,” Shark Drake said indifferently, “because this is not my body. You would only kill this troublesome half-breed whose body I inhabit.”

“I know that.” Yuma exhaled slowly. “And to free his soul from you, I would destroy his body. If I am to be a savior, I will start with him.”

Shark Drake barked out a laugh. “You would never kill the man you _love_ , Yuma Tsukumo.” He spat out the word like venom.

“Not unless he asked me to,” Yuma replied, and he found that he meant it with all his heart.

Shark Drake eyed Yuma skeptically, as though trying to determine how serious Yuma was about killing Ryoga’s body to save him from the god. Yuma stared right back, sword hand trembling again. But before Shark Drake could say anything more, Yuma heard his name in a shrill, furious voice.

_“Yuma Tsukumo!”_

Kurosaki was back, and Kotori was at his heels. Her dress was wrinkled, her hair was tangled and sticking up at all angles, and her face was red with anger.

For a moment, Yuma was more afraid of her than he was of Shark Drake.

“What the _hell_ ” – she punched him in the stomach for emphasis; he grunted – “are you _doing_!”

“It’s important,” he muttered. “Please don’t interfere. That’s all I ask of you. Just observe.”

“Oh no,” she snarled, grabbing him by the ear. He flinched. “You didn’t drag me out of bed to watch two grown-ass men trying to kill each other over some meaningless military title. You’re – you’re best _friends_ for the gods’ sakes!”

“I know,” he said through grinded teeth, “which is why I have to fight him.” He reached his hand up to hers and pulled it away. But he didn’t let go. “Kotori,” he whispered in a voice quiet enough that none of the other bandits and soldiers filling the area could hear, “I know he’s in there. I need to get him back, and this is the only way.” He didn't tell her that killing Ryoga's body might be the only way to save him.

She looked like she wanted to argue, but clenched her teeth again. “Fine,” she said bitterly. “If you think getting yourself killed will help, I guess I won’t change your mind.” Her eyes flickered toward Ryoga, who had pulled off his cloak and was running his hands down the shaft of his lance. “But think about the rest of the people you love, too, and how we feel about this.” She turned her back on him without another word.

He watched her go, heart heavy. She was right – she usually was – but he had to try, at least.

The small clearing was filled with bandits now – not just the eight that Yuma had requested, but two dozen – and his travelling companions were there, too. He saw Cathy in a tree, frowning at him, Droite and Gauche off to the side, Anna, Reina, Charlie… even Astral, standing far off with his hood pulled down over his face. Heartland pushed his way through to the front and held out his arms as though preparing to start the festivities for one of his sadistic arena death matches.

“Not a word out of you,” Yuma warned him, and Heartland’s eyes narrowed. “This is not one of your games. It is not a spectacle.”

Heartland crossed his arms. “Pray tell, why are two allies fighting, then?”

Yuma pulled off his own cloak and tossed it to the side. “We are deciding who will lead this army against the Barians.”

There was an outbreak of murmuring at this, with several bandits shaking their heads at Yuma. He knew what they were thinking. Why should they follow a man who had not experienced what they had?

“It will be a one-on-one fight,” he continued, ignoring the murmurs, which died down as he spoke again. “Captain Kamishiro, what is your weapon of choice?”

Shark Drake gestured with his lance.

“Mine is my father’s sword.” He gripped it tightly. _I have already shed blood with this sword. I pray I will not need to shed the blood of the man I love._ “Each of us will try to capture something from the other.” He gestured at Kurosaki, who hesitated before taking the dirty red handkerchief from his neck and handing it to Yuma. On the other side, Ryoga took one from another child bandit. “Whoever captures the handkerchief from the other first will claim victory.”

Kotori turned her back, covering her eyes with one hand. The sight of it was painful.

“Restrictions?” Shark Drake called out. There was a smug look on his face. He had the advantage in every way possible, and he knew it. Better weapon, more speed – nothing to hold him back. But Yuma had a purpose. That had to count for something, right?

He wiped his hand on his pants and steadied his sword arm. He relaxed his shoulders. If he was tense, he had already lost. “No.”

They stared at each other for a moment before Shark Drake smirked and lunged.

He was impossibly fast, but Yuma had positioned himself far enough away that he would have the opportunity to dodge the first quick strike, and lowered his sword to push Ryoga’s lance away. The clash of the Barian-killing weapons sent a shock through Yuma’s body, and from the slight twitch of Ryoga’s head, he felt it too. But he recovered quickly, switching hands effortlessly before sweeping the lance under Yuma’s feet.

Yuma let out a soft curse for his carelessness as he fell forward. He flung his hand in front of him and pushed off as it hit the ground, rolling clumsily toward Shark Drake, out of range of the lance, which was now swept out of position in Ryoga’s non-dominant hand. He had about three seconds before Ryoga would be able to reposition it—

He grunted as Ryoga’s foot connected with his ribs. Gods, it hurt; he hadn’t calculated Shark Drake playing dirty and going physical. But as he realized with a jolt that Shark Drake was well within range to take the dirty handkerchief from his belt, he decided he should try to withstand the pain and move.

Swinging his sword upward was a distraction; Shark Drake stepped back to avoid it, and Yuma was able to roll away enough to get back on his knees and move out of range again.

 “Defensive moves will not get you very far, Yuma Tsukumo,” Shark Drake called out.

Yuma ground his teeth together and placed a hand on his ribs. Each breath he took felt like a stab to the chest. Nothing felt broken, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell. Worse, Shark Drake still seemed to be in complete control, at ease with the situation.

Time for a new tactic, Yuma decided, and buried his sword in the ground before backing up.

Shark Drake looked puzzled for about a second before Yuma dove straight at him, springing from his sword hilt for momentum.

It might have worked had Yuma managed to succeed in knocking Shark Drake to the ground, or catching him completely off balance, or doing anything besides mildly inconveniencing him, but instead of falling back, Shark Drake twisted around with Yuma at his waist and slammed Yuma to the ground with his free arm.

Yuma whimpered; Shark Drake’s arm was digging into his injured ribs. It would have been so easy for Shark Drake to reach down and pull off the handkerchief at Yuma’s waist.

“It was a noble effort,” Shark Drake whispered, “but not good enough.” He punched Yuma’s face, and Yuma grunted, tasting blood in his mouth. “I tire of you, Yuma Tsukumo. And I tire of Ryoga Kamishiro’s constant attempts to interfere. If you could hear him now—“

“Then he’s listening,” Yuma breathed through the agony in his ribs and jaw. He looked up into Ryoga’s eyes for some recognition, but his vision was hazy. “Ryoga… _Kattobing_. I’ll never give up on you.”

Shark Drake’s face twisted into a scowl as he moved his arm from Yuma’s chest, replacing it with a boot. He pressed down, hard, and Yuma couldn’t keep the cry of pain from escaping him as Shark Drake snatched his lance and stood, pressing down on Yuma’s chest.

“Try _kattobing_ when you’re dead,” Shark Drake hissed, and raised the lance.

They locked eyes, and as they did, something strange happened.

Shark Drake didn’t move. The lance hovered above Yuma’s chest, just a couple of feet, and Shark Drake’s face convulsed, the hatred giving way to concern.

“Grab it,” he gasped, and forced the lance tip-down into the ground next to Yuma’s face.

It was all Yuma needed.

Fighting through the pain, Yuma reached up and pushed Ryoga’s boot away just enough… just enough…

His fingers fumbled at Ryoga’s waist for the handkerchief.

And then he fell back, giving in to his exhaustion.  

* * *

 

It was raining harder than ever, but now the rain seemed to sizzle against the palace walls. Even the storm clouds had an eerie red glow to them, all the more noticeable when lightning streaked across the sky. Whether it was night or day was almost impossible to ascertain just by looking outside.

Something big was going to happen.

Despite being completely prepared to read through them immediately, Polara ignored the papers Vector gave her. Instead, she cleaned her quarters, took a useless nap, visited the officers’ camps at the base of the mountain, read a book, checked in with the supervisors at the nearest mining prison, had tea with Pherka, and was contemplating checking in at Arclight or Heartland to see what Alasco and Ilya were up to when she finally acknowledged that she was delaying the inevitable.

She sighed, sat down in front of the fire, and opened the first paper.

Maybe she had expected a letter from Durbe that Vector had intercepted, or countless eyewitness testimonies swearing on their gems that they knew for a fact Durbe and Mizael had committed treason. Instead, she found several pages of inventory lists dated between ten and thirty years ago from the central library, detailing all the books that had gone missing without being checked out by the librarian. Some were fairly mundane, like _Plants of Sargasso_ or a book of Barian fables,but others were not. _The Third Reign of Arclight, A Guide to World Religions, God vs Gods, The Dragon of Destruction, The Founding of the Barian Kingdom,_ and several books about Astral World and the Dragoons filled the inventories. Polara would believe that maybe someone had been curious about Astral World, had it been only one or two books. She might have believed that someone was moderately interested in world politics, had it not been an inventory that filled page after page after page…

Even more, the books about Dragoons had all disappeared in two distinct timeframes: one group, a little over twenty-six years ago, and no more books had vanished until nearly twelve years ago. She didn’t know why the first group of books had vanished, but almost eleven years ago had been the Dragoon massacre.

“It still doesn’t prove anything,” she told herself. There were certainly suspicious things about the lists, but they were not enough to accuse Durbe of anything. So she picked up the next batch of papers.

Military reports, dated from thirty to ten years back. And unlike the inventories, _these_ were all about Durbe and Mizael.

It was a detailed collection of reports that had been filed by the training camp officers. Every minor disciplinary action taken against either of them – Mizael had quite a record – as well as any trips to the infirmary. One against Durbe was from massive lacerations from a public whipping, the result of him being caught out of his barracks with Mizael way after hours. The officer filing the report noted that he had no idea why Durbe would even take the blame for Mizael, but maybe he would think twice next time, as his thick skin had literally hung off his back. The report also noted a small cut on his left forearm, a fairly recent one. This nagged at Polara for a moment until she dug out Mizael’s next infirmary trip, where a similar cut was noted, though the Healer had not seemed to make any correlation.

But Polara did.

“Oh, Durbe,” she murmured, rubbing her eyes. A blood oath? Why had he been so stupid? What kind of blood oath could he have made with a Barian who had no allies and no future?

Well, she decided grimly, that was the way his life would have turned out without Durbe.

Two more pages indicated that Alit had been sent to the infirmary at his first outpost for an accidental fall, where he fractured his wrist, and another indicating Gilag had slammed his hand with a hammer and broken a finger. Both were reported with narrow scars on their left forearms. Again, no links to Durbe or Mizael.

Polara closed her eyes and breathed slowly a few times before continuing.

More medical reports followed, these ones from the past ten years, since Durbe had become a lord. Most seemed mundane, but a few of the most recent infirmary trips spoke volumes.

Of course, there was Mizael’s burn, a result of him talking back to Vector. Durbe had reported that to Polara, complaining that Vector was out of control. That did not surprise her. Then there was a curious entry about Durbe being unconscious for two days at Arclight after apparently performing some physically exhausting work.

There were very few expenditures of energy that would cause a Barian to be out of commission for days at a time. Even soul transfers – she forced herself away from that territory – were not capable of that. No, Durbe had been performing… some kind of ritual there.

She kept reading.

The assassination attempt against General Mizael yielded about five pages of Healing techniques, everything from potions to known antidotes to direct energy Healing. None of it so much as touched Mizael’s fever.

_General’s fever dangerously high. Body no longer producing moisture. Likely will not survive the morning._

Until…

_Found Lord Durbe with the General. Both with lacerations to left forearms. General stabilizing. Cause unknown._

This didn’t make _sense_ – Ilya said Durbe claimed to have bled Mizael. Why would both of them have a laceration—

_Lord Durbe checked General out of infirmary. Claims to have antidote to poison. Will not elaborate._

Polara read this entry five times, hoping that maybe she had read it wrong. Maybe she simply did not understand. But no, it was clear. Whatever Durbe had discovered when he had left their meeting after the general’s poisoning was something he would not share with anyone else. Whatever cure he had found, he was keeping a secret.

She turned with trepidation to the last pages.

These pages, dated thirty years ago, consisted of a testimony from Durbe himself to a magistrate stating that something had happened to his village, and that everyone within it had died of the same sudden illness. As Polara read Durbe’s description of the illness, she shuddered. High fevers, lack of sweat, prolonged unconsciousness…

It sounded entirely too familiar.

But then, how had Durbe not succumbed?

The paper ended with the magistrate’s ruling, that by virtue of Durbe being completely untouched by the illness, Durbe had probably poisoned his own village, and that the young Barian’s request to appeal to the Barian Emperors had been denied.

Odd, she mused. She hadn’t remembered ever hearing anything about a young Barian being accused of genocide. She certainly would have wanted to hear his case.

 _Ruling_ : _Sentenced to a choice of five years mandatory military training or three years in the mines._

The military training was circled, and a sloppy, childish hand had written _Durbe_ in the blank space at the bottom of the paper.

She set the paper aside and stared into the dying embers of her fire. She had a choice now. There were enough suspicious activities here to pull Durbe in for a trial hearing. The others probably wouldn’t object; Durbe was not popular with most of them, except maybe Ilya and occasionally Pherka. It even might warrant stripping him of his title, at least temporarily, until he could explain his actions.

There was one thing these papers did not explain, however. No one knew how Durbe had orchestrated the attack on the Dragoon Village. But if the rest of these reports were any indication, Polara thought wearily, it had probably been illegal.

She leaned her head against her chair and closed her eyes. She needed to sleep on this before making a decision.

Outside, the storm raged on.


	66. Belated Friendship

“…moronic and irresponsible…”

Muttered voices, quiet curses, and the faint sounds of footsteps swam into Yuma’s consciousness. He almost regretted having to wake up – it was so nice to sleep uninterrupted for a change – but… _why_ was he still sleeping? There was work to be done—

_Oh yeah,_ he remembered as sharp pains shot through his chest, getting more intense when he tried rolling over onto his side, _that’s why._

A firm hand reached out and pushed him back down by his shoulder. “Stop moving.”

It was Kotori, and she sounded irritated. He opened his eyes a crack to see where he was and found himself on a pile of leaves under a low-hanging canopy of frayed blankets, hastily stitched together and draped over tree branches. His shirt had been removed, his chest wrapped tightly in bandages.

He blinked a few times. Outside the tent, people hurried by, holding armfuls of cloth, weapons, wood, and food; standing in front of the tent facing outward was Astral.

Yuma tried calling out to him, but his jaw spiked with pain and his ribs doubly so, and he ended up whining pathetically and slumping back on the leaf bed.

“Breathe deeply,” Kotori said curtly.

He tried, but _gods_ it hurt, and he erupted into an excruciating bout of coughs that had him rolling onto his injured side, which only made it _more_ painful.

One hand held his back, the other his chest, and he emitted a guttural noise of discomfort as icy currents poured through his body.

“I can’t fix the fractures all the way, but this will help take the edge off some of the pain.” Kotori leaned back, her hands shaking slightly. “It doesn’t take long for you to Heal, somehow, so I think it should be a few weeks before you—I told you not to _move_!”

Yuma was halfway through trying to roll over again before Kotori grabbed his shoulder and pushed him down. His gaze was fixed on Astral. They hadn’t spoken since he’d come back to camp, since Astral had rejected his plea for forgiveness; Yuma didn’t necessarily need to be forgiven. He just wanted Astral to be able to look him in the eyes again.

Astral started to walk away from the tent, as though sensing that Yuma was trying to get up to go talk to him. It only served to fuel Yuma’s desperate attempts to get up.

“Yuma, for the gods’ sakes—“

“I have to… take care of something…”

“Start with yourself,” Kotori said sharply.

Yuma almost threw up from the pain, but he forced himself to his knees, then to his feet. Kotori let out a frustrated huff.

“Fine. You want to go make things worse, be my guest, but don’t come crying to me when your rib fracture turns into a full break.“

Yuma tried to give her an apologetic smile through the agony in his jaw, but she turned away and stared at the frayed canvas wall instead, mouth quivering.

_I’m sorry,_ he thought, grabbing his cloak before ducking painfully out of the tent flap and hurrying after Astral. _Don’t have time to think only about myself right now…_ He would have to make it up to Kotori when this was all over. He owed her so much for everything he had put her through. She _deserved_ so much for everything she had done for everyone else.

It took only a few minutes to catch up to Astral, but even the short walk strained Yuma’s chest. He took shallow breaths to ease the pain and grabbed Astral’s arm.

“Hey.”

Astral was pale, paler than Yuma had ever seen him, and the makeup that covered his markings no longer matched his skin tone. Under the uneven swatch of badly-applied makeup, Yuma could see the faint outlines of the green markings.

He hesitated and let go. “Are you…” He wanted to ask if Astral was feeling all right, or ill, or needed more food – the gods knew there wasn’t a lot of healthy food to go around in this camp – but Astral’s narrowed eyes stopped his question.

“No,” Astral said curtly, “I am not.”

Yuma hugged his arms close to his chest and shifted his weight between both feet. “You’ve been treating me like a stranger since I got back—“

Astral laughed. It was a high-pitched, wild noise, nothing like Astral’s soft amusement. The sound made Yuma shudder and several passing bandits glanced warily at the hooded man as they passed. “You lied to me.”

“I…” There was no denying this fact. Keeping Shingetsu’s identity a secret from Astral _had_ been a lie – a lie by omission was still a lie, his father had taught him –  but Shingetsu had proven that he could be trusted. Had he told Astral, or Ryoga, they would have tracked Shingetsu down and killed him. Yuma couldn’t let that happen to a friend, especially not one who had risked his life to save others. “I couldn’t put him in danger had you known what he is.”

“He is a Barian.”

“He saved our lives.”

“He is a _Barian_.” Astral’s voice was low and icy now.

“Astral.“ Yuma held out his hands pleadingly, begging Astral to understand why he trusted Shingetsu. Could he even get Astral to see reason when it came to the Barians? “He had a hundred opportunities to kill us and yet he—“

“I will not pretend that I know what drives these _things_ forward,” Astral interrupted in that same cold voice. Yuma shivered involuntarily again. “You say that not all Barians are evil murderers. Well, Yuma, the only Barians I have encountered in my life are exactly that. Excuse me for being unwilling to entertain the thought of Shingetsu not being like the rest of his kin.”

Yuma was sure now that nothing would change Astral’s mind.

“We probably won’t see him again,” Yuma said quietly. “If that puts your mind at ease.”

“It doesn’t.” Astral stared at something over Yuma’s shoulder and pressed his lips together, but when Yuma half-turned (his chest seared with pain again; he pressed his arm against the bandages), there was nothing there but trees and empty makeshift shelters. “He did something to me, Yuma, when he _saved_ me. Something dark pulled me back in that forest, something overwhelming. I haven’t been able to commune with the gods since.”

Without another word, he turned his back on Yuma and walked away.

Yuma watched him go, chest burning with a different kind of pain. How could he go forward if he didn’t have Astral’s trust?

“Captain.”

It was hard enough knowing that Ryoga wouldn’t talk to him, because of Shark Drake, but Astral… Astral was the one he did everything for. He dedicated his life to Astral, and for what? For mistrust? Because Yuma had trusted Shingetsu… But not all Barians were bad, Shingetsu had proven that. Why couldn’t Astral see it?

But this mention of an overwhelming darkness in Astral’s heart… terrified Yuma. It had something to do with that village of revenants… when Astral had summoned a portal large enough to transport all of them to different parts of the Arclight Kingdom, a hundred miles from the Waste. It must have, because Shingetsu wouldn’t–

A hand tapped his arm and he flinched.

“ _Captain_.”

He turned, fighting back a grimace of pain. It was Kurosaki, and he had half a dozen bandits behind him, all wearing matching red armbands. For a moment, Yuma couldn’t understand why they had all come to him, but—

_Wait…_ Captain _?_

“We wanted you to be aware that, though you are the leader of whatever is left of the Astral Guard, that you still must earn our respect,” Kurosaki said coldly.

“Wh…” Yuma glanced up at the men behind Kurosaki – the boys, really; none of them seemed to have reached adulthood yet – and he suddenly understood. “…ah.”

He must have defeated Ryoga in the duel, and at stake had been the title of Captain-Commander. He hadn’t thought anything of it between waking up with the knowledge that Ryoga was still in that body _somewhere_ , trapped by Shark Drake, that he could still be _reached_ , and the fact that Astral flat-out refused to trust him, but he _had_ secured the handkerchief first, even if Shark Drake had physically beat him within an inch of his life...

He touched the fang around his neck. He didn’t _want_ the title… it belonged to Ryoga and Ryoga alone. But he couldn’t refuse it now, could he?

“Of course,” he said quietly. His chest was on fire, despite the Healing. He tried not to show the pain in his expression. “Just tell me what I can do for you.”

* * *

 

It had been a while since Ilya had last been in the Barian Kingdom’s main library. It was dark and silent, with windowless stone walls; not a soul paced the narrow aisles between high bookshelves, not a soul sat at the straight-backed chairs. As far as places designed for comfort while studying, this library lacked much of the peaceful charm of the Arclight or Astral libraries. She couldn’t think of a more unlikely place to find Durbe, and yet, Polara seemed sure he was here.

Still, Ilya checked all over the Arclight Palace, including the gardens where his generals’ bodies lay, checked his quarters at Baria, and even ventured to Tenjo – surely, he would be in one of those places, where he often went to think in times of distress – before coming to this library.

Then again, since Polara sent her to be the one to deliver the news to Durbe – it was what she got for being the only lord trying to remain somewhat friendly toward him, Ilya supposed – maybe she just wanted to delay the inevitable a little while longer.

There, in a corner, sat the disgraced lord, his human form far worse for the wear than Ilya had ever seen it. Having grown up in a circus, not knowing _if_ she was going to receive her next meal let alone _when_ , she knew what starvation looked like, and Durbe was the very picture of it.  His robes hung off his body like dirty silk blankets, his hair was thin and straw-like, and as she got closer, she could see the skin on his face and hands flaking off. He didn’t look up from the book opened in front of him, though he must have noticed her approaching.

She tried to remain silent as she stood by the table – to give him time to prepare himself for the conversation that was to follow – but as five minutes stretched on and he remained motionless, not even turning the pages of his book, she finally couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“Why here?”

He finally turned his gaze upward and Ilya couldn’t help but look away from the deadened expression. Polara hadn’t exaggerated; his face truly did look like it belonged to a corpse. Gone was the cool determination in his eyes, as was any color he had in his already pale face save for the lines of red scratch marks scraping off his dry skin and the dark circles under his eyes.

“It took longer than I thought it would,” he said in a raspy voice.

“It didn’t have to end up this way, Durbe.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he closed the book, which seemed to be a simple leather-bound journal of sorts, and placed his hand on top of it. His knuckles were bony; the skin peeled from around his bluish fingernails. She could see every vein in his hand. “It did, from the moment I met him.” He gestured with a few fingers. “Right over there, more than thirty years ago.” He gripped his wrist with his other bony hand. “We made a blood oath.”

“Durbe—“

“I knew nothing about him but his name.” Durbe stared past Ilya, unseeingly. He was lost in his own thoughts, emotionless. “He offered his services to me. His life, his loyalty… and he hated me, the things I asked of him, but he did them anyway. For the sake of the Barian Kingdom.”

Ilya placed a hand on the table. “You’re getting really close to openly admitting treason to me, Durbe. Do you want to go there?”

He turned his eyes to hers, slowly. She resisted the urge to look away again. “That’s why you’re here, Ilya.”

She lowered herself to the chair next to him. It was maddening; he had done so much for the Empire only to give up – all because of a pithy human emotion called love. She couldn’t understand it, how anyone could place the life of another above their own…

…but then, she had never had a real friend before.

“Polara wanted me to give this to you,” she said quietly, holding a letter out. It wasn’t sealed, of course. Ilya had read the entire thing, which was why she had dreaded this conversation.

_We have received information linking you to a number of serious conspiracies against the Empire. By a majority vote, you have been stripped of your title as Seventh Emperor of the Barian Empire until a hearing can be held to determine whether this information is indeed true, and to what extent you have abused your powers._

_You will not leave Baria until this hearing has transpired. You will return to the Palace with Lord Ilya. Any attempt to escape will prove your guilt and will result in your being hunted down and executed._

_I sincerely pray for your sake that none of these accusations are true._

Ilya watched his face closely. His expression didn’t change as he stared blankly at the paper, and there was no indication that he had even read it at all. But she knew he absorbed the impact of each word.

“That’s it, then.” He set the paper on the table and gazed at the wall across the room. “Thirty years of work and three murdered friends and all I have to show for it is a life of imprisonment or a public death.”

Her hands clenched her skirt, crumpling the paper inside her pocket even more than it already was. She refused to part with the reminder that someone – one of the other six lords – had already plotted her death down to the very means. But it wasn’t just hers; Durbe’s death had been planned out as well. An execution, a prediction that was written long before Durbe’s treason came to light.

“Durbe.” She leaned closer to him, lowering her voice though they were the only ones in the library. “Did you… is this true?”

He met her eyes again, that chilling, dead expression where the alert, calculating gaze had once been. “I did many things, Ilya. Many terrible things.” It wasn’t cold in the library, but he shivered anyway. “They’re dead because of my mistakes.”

Could Durbe have been the one to write in that book? Could he have accepted that his actions, his whole life’s work, would get him executed? Would he have written his own death in that book, then drag Ilya and Pherka and Polara with him? Drowning, poisoning, execution, suicide – could Durbe have planned this for decades? Was this his failsafe, his plan from the beginning? To take down as many Emperors as he could from the inside?

But why not Alasco or Vector or Koche? The three of them hated Durbe the most, had always tried to undermine his authority and take away his titles and, Ilya was certain, had tried to kill Durbe more than once. Why he wouldn’t figure out a way to kill them first didn’t make sense to her.

And Durbe… had a reason to live, up until over a week ago.

_Can’t trust anyone,_ she reminded herself.

“There’s no point in running,” he mused, seemingly unaware that Ilya was struggling to figure out what she wanted to ask him. “I have nowhere to go.”

“If you didn’t do all these things, then there’s nothing to—“

Durbe laughed, an odd, raspy sound devoid of humor. “Ilya, I _did_ commit treason.”

The silence was deafening, and Ilya realized after ten seconds that she wasn’t breathing. She exhaled shakily and stood.

“You should… change back,” she said hollowly, not looking at him. “I’ll arrange for some extra crystal to be brought to you, to help you regain some energy.”

“Why? So I don’t starve to death before I am hanged?” He sounded almost amused.

“I’m trying to help you,” she snapped, wrenching his arm. He flinched.

“I never asked for it.”

“Too damn bad.”

He snatched his book from the table and tried to pull his arm free, but in his state he was no stronger than a human child, and she pulled him along with ease. “You knew all along, didn’t you? About my…” His mouth twisted. “About Mizael. And me.”

“Not all along.” She stopped and looked him in the face again. Oh, she had suspected; they all had. But suspicions meant nothing, not until she saw with her own eyes the blood on both their lips, the fingernails in Mizael’s flesh that she knew did not belong to him.

“You didn’t say anything.”

“Polara always hushed talk like that,” Ilya said dismissively before dragging him off again, and it was _a_ truth. _No accusations without proof_ was a familiar refrain to all the Emperors. But had Ilya brought up the blood on their lips, had she mentioned that she knew the two of them _had_ shared Mizael’s room, his bed, well… perhaps Polara would have thought harder about it.

No, the reason she never said anything, even when the opportunity presented itself, was because she… what? Was interested in seeing where he would end up, what he would do next? He was unpredictable, but not in the chaotic way Vector was. Shrewd and calculating, but not in the heartless way that Alasco and Koche were.  

Ilya had become a lord because of her magic. She was, quite simply, the most powerful mage in the Barian Empire. Threats and blackmail and displays of her anger and raw energy, fueled by her hatred of the Barians and humans alike who had turned her into a sideshow for half her life, who had starved and beaten and made a mockery of her very existence, gave her the advantage in her quest for power to force her oppressors to quiver at her feet.

But Durbe was different. Ilya knew very little about his past except that he had come from poverty, had no living family, and had joined the military out of desperation. He had no connections, weak powers, and no discernible fighting skills. By all accounts, he never should have progressed past a low-ranked officer. But he inspired loyalty among those who believed in him, whatever his cause was. He worked his way from the dregs of society to the very top, and it took him twenty years and a genocide of impossible crafting to do it. He got where he was through a lifetime of hard work.

Ilya could respect that, in a way she could not respect from the other lords.

“Thank you.”

The soft words brought her back to the present with an abrupt jolt. She had led Durbe into the cavernous entrance hall of the crystal building without even noticing. And now he was looking at her through his dead eyes, resigned to his fate, and she pitied him.

“I was told to escort you back by walking, and not to allow you to make a portal,” she said, pretending not to have heard him.

“Then lead the way.”

“I don’t agree with those orders,” she said coolly. “I do not think it proper to parade a lord through the training grounds all the way to the palace, disgraced or not.”

“What if I escaped through the portal instead?” Durbe asked wryly.

She contemplated letting him leave, encouraging it, even. This whole business made her sick, and even more so knowing that she would have to sit through his hearing the next day, and would likely be expected to vote for his execution.

Her hand clenched again over the paper in her pocket.

“You said it yourself,” she said, forcing her voice to be calm, “you have nowhere else to go.”

Another dusty laugh left him.

She formed her own portal, wishing he would take this chance to flee, but knowing that he would be waiting at the palace on the other side.


	67. Seven Become Six

After the duel with Yuma, Shark Drake refused to leave the decrepit shelter, spending hours at a time in deep meditation. It barely spoke to Ryoga, outside the one interaction in Astral World they had shortly after Yuma had claimed victory and passed out under Shark Drake’s feet. And if Ryoga had thought that Shark Drake was pissed during their last encounter with Yuma, how the god felt now made the last time seem like a mild annoyance.

It wreaked havoc on its chosen landscape in the Astral World, a dying forest on the edge of a black lake; leveling trees, shattering boulders, churning the lake into a terrifying cyclone, all the while screaming threats and epithets at Ryoga, many of which were about Yuma. Ryoga bore Shark Drake’s fury with an impassive face, but inwardly he feared what the god might do to Yuma if Ryoga let his defenses down even for a second.

And it had taken all of Ryoga’s willpower to keep Shark Drake from killing Yuma before. Now that the god had lost control of the rabble of bandits, there was no telling what it might do to get it back, and Ryoga feared he might not have the strength to stop it a second time.

His eyes snapped open.

Yuma hovered by the door, cloak thrown lopsidedly over his shoulders. He wore no shirt, but frayed bandages covered his chest, not quite obstructing the green and purple bruises disfiguring his skin. His eyes were deeply shadowed and red, and he didn’t meet Shark Drake’s gaze.

Ryoga’s necklace dangled between Yuma’s bruised collarbones, and the sight of it, more than anything, set off Shark Drake’s fury anew.

“How dare you show your filthy, treacherous face to me again, you subhuman freak,” Shark Drake growled, grinding Ryoga’s teeth together so hard Ryoga could practically feel the bone scraping off.

Rage boiled inside Ryoga at the sight of Yuma’s flinch, though whether it was Ryoga’s or Shark Drake’s, Ryoga couldn’t tell.

 _You’ve already hurt him enough, you fucking monster,_ he spat at the god.

“I haven’t hurt him nearly as much as I want to,” Shark Drake hissed, climbing off the bed, and Yuma’s hand brushed close to the door handle. “I want to feel the life being choked out of—“

 _He will not be hurt by my hands again!_ Ryoga reached for control, pouring every ounce of energy into the effort, straining against the power of the Astral World that rested in Shark Drake’s hands.

Shark Drake froze mid-step, but Ryoga wasn’t sure it was because of his efforts or if his actions were simply making the god more annoyed than before. _Stop_ resisting _, Ryoga Kamishiro._

 _Don’t touch him!_ The amount of energy he was pouring into the effort was going to diminish him to nothing more than a tiny voice at the back of his own mind if he kept going, but…

If he could do anything to protect Yuma… Yuma, who even now refused to believe that Ryoga Kamishiro was lost to the darkness inside himself...

“I just want to talk to him,” Yuma said in a quiet voice. His fingers trembled on the door. “For just a few minutes. Please…”

“He has no power to speak of his own accord,” Shark Drake snarled. “He used up any power he might have stopping me from killing you yesterday.”

Yuma’s mouth quivered, but when he spoke, it was in the same quiet voice. “Then those tears on your face are yours?”

Shark Drake immediately placed a hand to Ryoga’s face. It came away wet, covered in salty water. Shark Drake clenched Ryoga’s fist.

“I didn’t know gods cried.”

Shark Drake let out a frenzied roar, stepped forward, pulled Ryoga’s hand back—

_No!_

Pain shot through Ryoga’s fist as wood splintered under the force of his punch. Yuma had squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of the blow that never came, and now he was looking up into Ryoga’s face, which was half a foot away.

The god was screaming in Ryoga’s head now, wrestling control away, but it was easier to maintain control now that he had it than it had been to take it away. Still, Ryoga had only enough energy to keep the god at bay for a few seconds longer—

He looked Yuma in the face and gave him a pained smile. “I’m proud… of you.”

Yuma’s mouth wordlessly formed his name, and tears spilled out of his exhausted eyes. He reached out hesitantly for Ryoga’s face—

Ryoga shook his head, breaths quickening. Two of the fingers on his right hand moved on their own. Shark Drake’s screaming was overpowering, was drowning out Yuma’s voice.

“I’m…” Ryoga resisted the urge to close his eyes against the din, but he needed to see Yuma’s face. “…sorry… my captain.”

It was Yuma’s turn to shake his head, face in obvious pain and tears streaming freely down his cheeks now, but whatever he said next, Ryoga could only make out his lips moving, and Ryoga had never been good at reading lips. That had been Rio’s…

He crushed his jaw together and let out a pathetic whine.

“Give me a little bit of time with him,” he gasped at Shark Drake, “the time you promised to give me with my sister and never did.”

 _I made you no such promise!_ Shark Drake screamed. _I said only that you would have the power of the gods to travel between realms—_

“What good is having the… power of the Astral… World at my…” It was becoming harder to speak, harder to breathe, harder to move, and his splintered hand reformed into a fist. Yuma’s hands were on his chest, then his back, and Ryoga found himself on his knees, slumped in Yuma’s arms. “If I’m… a prisoner of… my own body… my… own mind…”

Shark Drake’s rage pounded his head, but through it all, he could clearly hear Yuma’s voice for the first time, the same stubborn words that had pushed him through Shark Drake’s control only one day earlier, where Yuma lay broken and bloody under his feet.

“I’ll never give up on you, Ryoga.”

Yuma gently released Ryoga’s limp body, which collapsed of its own volition to its knees. Ryoga’s heart pounded, _burned,_ but his body wouldn’t respond to his commands. Shark Drake would take control again, leaving Yuma vulnerable – more vulnerable than he already was, with his bruised and broken ribs, his swollen face, and his emotions shattered – and Ryoga would be unable to do anything to stop it this time.

“Go…” he whispered hoarsely.

Yuma nodded slowly, but he took Ryoga’s face in his hands and brushed his lips over Ryoga’s forehead before standing.

Shark Drake thrust out a hand and grabbed Yuma’s leg, looking up through eyes full of hatred.

Yuma looked down at Shark Drake with his own tired eyes. “I’ve decided on our plan of attack,” he said, voice shaking. “We’re having a war council this evening. I expect you are still too ashamed to show your face in the camp after losing to me, but you’re welcome to join.”

He pulled his leg free, leaving Shark Drake shaking with anger on the floor, and left the tiny shack.

There was a long silence as Shark Drake flexed each of Ryoga’s joints, making sure he had total control again.  

 _I relish the thought of destroying both of you in the most painful way I can come up with,_ the god finally seethed, _just as I relish the thought of the both of you suffering in a hell of your own making for eternity for your abnormal sins._

There was no point in arguing with Shark Drake about what constituted a _sin_ , nor was there any point being angry over the god’s insistence that Yuma was a freak and that his relationship with Ryoga – whatever it was at this point – was unnatural.

But he could reiterate his regret over choosing Shark Drake in his most dire moment of desperation. _I’m already in a hell of my own making,_ he said softly, relinquishing the last bit of control he had held onto. His energy was completely spent now. _Not being haunted by you… will be paradise by comparison._

* * *

 

Chris stepped through the portal into the familiar gardens, walking right into a cold, drizzling rain. He hurried along, pulling his cloak over his face, but stopped abruptly when he saw Akari standing in front of a high hedge of yellow roses, practice sword in hand. She had no cloak on at all, and the rain had plastered her bangs to her face. But still she stared at the hedge, unmoving.

He took her arm wordlessly and tried to lead her back to the palace, but she shook her head and nodded over the hedge.

A tiny, doll-like figure in a rumpled frilly dress stood in front of three small mounds of earth under an apple tree, and Chris realized with a jolt that it was Ilya, and she was visiting the graves of Durbe’s dead generals.

“Isn’t that one of the Barians?” Akari whispered.

“Yes,” Chris whispered back, though he was confused. Ilya was the lord in charge of Heartland, and he could count on one hand the number of times he had seen her here in Arclight. Forgetting temporarily about the rain, he beckoned Akari to follow him around the hedges.

Ilya must have heard them coming, but she didn’t move. He had never seen her with unkempt clothing or hair, but here she was, with her normally perfect ringlets limp and sticking to her face, and expensive silk cloak and lace dress splattered with mud. Her hand was in one of her pockets, and from the slight bulge, he could tell she had her fist clenched inside it. Even her makeup was running in the rain, her eyeliner leaving jet-black streaks on her face, her painted lips smudged and uneven.

Lord Ilya, the Witch of Baria, defenseless and out of her element.

How simple it would be to kill her here, knowing now, thanks to Fuya Okudaira, that she was useless in water.

“Good morning, Lord Ilya,” Chris said cautiously. “What brings you to Arclight?”

She finally looked up, icy blue eyes darting between him and Akari with what Chris recognized immediately as suspicion. Her shoulders tensed. “Nothing,” she said, entirely too defensively, shoving a clump of hair out of her eyes with a muddy hand.

“Did you do this?” Akari demanded, pointing, and Chris turned his attention for the first time to the mounds of dirt.

The graves had clearly been dug up recently – worms wriggled on the freshly-turned soil, and the roots of the plants that had tried to start growing on Alit and Gilag’s graves were showing. Mizael’s, too recent a burial to yield new growth, had a shattered headstone.

“Why would I?” Ilya said bitterly. “Not even Mizael deserves this level of dishonor in death.”

“What did he do that pissed all of you off so much?” Akari cut in.

Ilya didn’t answer, but smoothed over Mizael’s burial mound with her foot instead.

“I think someone was looking for something,” Chris murmured. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume so, though he would not dismiss the possibility that someone simply wanted to disrespect the souls of the departed generals.

Ilya’s face convulsed. She bit her lip before craning her neck to look at Chris’s face – he was a solid foot and a half taller than she was – and said in a curt voice, “they were.”

“What?” Akari asked, folding her arms.

“I…” Ilya hesitated, a bizarre sight to Chris. She toed the dirt again with an air of nervousness. “…I was returning something when I found their graves this way.”

Akari bent down, pushed her hand through the mud that Ilya had been smoothing over, and pulled a gleaming sword hilt from the grave.

It was all too familiar.

Ilya didn’t move, but she narrowed her eyes.

Akari wordlessly handed Chris the handsome dragon sword, and he ran his fingers over the gem-encrusted eyes. It looked like Kaito’s, but had a few key differences; the gems were rounder, the dragon had a different head shape, and the blade was lighter, longer, slimmer.

“Why not give it to Lord Durbe?” Chris asked quietly, turning his attention back to the disheveled lord.

Her eyes darted back to the graves. If Chris hadn’t known better, he would have thought she felt some remorse over Durbe’s generals’ deaths.

“He won’t be needing it,” she said finally, half to herself.

“You make it sound like he’s dead,” Akari said.

Ilya stepped back from the graves and looked past them, to the sky in the northeast. Chris followed her gaze to a black and red storm raging violently in the distance, in the direction of the city of Baria.

“Not yet,” she whispered, and Chris was sure now that she wasn’t aiming the response at him or Akari. Her eyes flickered toward the sword in Chris’s hands once more. She opened her mouth, thought better of it, and shook her head. “I will be returning to Baria,” she said, suddenly businesslike; she drew herself up to full height (admittedly under five feet) and waved a muddy hand daintily to open a portal.

Akari waited until the portal closed and turned to Chris. “What was that all about?”

Chris rubbed his thumb over the dragon on the sword hilt again. Even though it had been buried in a pile of mud, it gleamed. “I don’t know.” Then, finally noticing her shivering slightly, he pulled off his cloak and draped it over her. The cold rain immediately plastered his hair to his face and clothes, but she looked grateful, unless he was imagining it. “We should get out of the rain.”

They walked silently until they reached the large entrance doors; Chris paused to let Akari in first, but froze when he heard footsteps approaching, as he was splattered in mud, clutching the dead general’s sword, and he would have a hell of a time explaining _that_ to Alasco. Especially since the story concerned another lord’s furtive behavior; he was almost certain Ilya had stolen the sword to return it to the general’s grave. But why? And why had the graves been looted to begin with?

Akari grabbed the sword from his hands and tucked it under her arm, pulling the cloak tightly around her, just in time for Alasco to round the corner.

He was in his Barian form, dressed in his finest robes of black and red, and seemed very happy about something. He stopped in front of the pair, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Good morning, Lord and Lady Arclight,” he said, eyes tilted upward in a clear, very unfriendly smile.

“Good morning, Lord Alasco,” Chris said, not returning the smile.

“Tsukumo,” Akari muttered behind Chris, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes in frustration.

Alasco scanned the two of them. His Barian form always unnerved Chris more than any other Barian he had ever met; there was a layer of skin curving from under his eyes to his temples, giving him the appearance of wearing a mask. Behind that mask, Chris could never tell what Alasco was thinking, only that it was never in his best interest, or anyone else’s for that matter. “Taking a walk in this weather?”

“I happened to notice from a third-floor window that the graves belonging to Lord Durbe’s late generals had been… defiled,” Chris said tersely. “My wife and I were investigating.”

Alasco shrugged off the news of the grave desecration and focused on Akari. “Did you not bring your own cloak, woman?”

A muscle twitched in Akari’s jaw, but she remained mercifully civil. “It was only a light mist when we went out.”

“Hmm.” Alasco narrowed his eyes slightly. “No one has seen you or your brothers all morning, Lord Christopher.”

His brothers were, of course, in the western camp, which was exactly where he had been most of the morning. “I don’t know where my brothers are, Lord Alasco,” Chris said stiffly, “seeing as they are grown men who disdain having to tell people where they’re going all the time, but _I_ have been in the gardens. As I said.”

“Where are _you_ going?” Akari demanded of Alasco, and Chris’s mouth twitched.

“I?” Alasco glanced down at his robes. “Ah, of course. Well, sometimes the Barian Emperors have to deal with… matters of treason.” He adopted an entirely unpersuasive look of regret. “Regrettable business, which I take no pleasure in.”

Akari’s snort turned into a hacking cough. Chris placed his hands on her shoulders and began leading her down the hall again, past Alasco. His entire body had shivered at Alasco’s emphasis on the word _treason_. The Barian Lords themselves rarely got involved in matters of treason unless it was someone with a great deal of power…

“You should drink some tea for that, and maybe summon a Healer,” Alasco called after them. “It sounds dreadful, Lady _Arclight_.”

“Let me stab him,” Akari muttered, but Chris, on impulse, offered parting words.

“Give Lord Durbe our well-wishes,” he said carefully. “He is still welcome to visit.”

Alasco’s shoulders moved in silent laughter. “Oh, I will, Lord Arclight. However, he will not be returning… ever again.”

Chris watched the second Barian lord of the morning disappear through a portal, and his suspicions were confirmed.

The matter of treason Alasco and Ilya had to attend to that day – Alasco with satisfaction, Ilya with reluctance – must involve Durbe.

Akari sneezed, and Chris turned his attention back to her, letting her lead the way back to her quarters on the second floor.

“You were convincing,” he murmured.

“The hell are you talking about?” she said thickly, her hand over her face. “My nose feels like a water pump.”

Chris stopped a servant with the request that a hot bath be drawn up for Akari and a cup of strong tea be prepared, and followed her into her chambers. He closed the door behind them.

Akari dropped the sword on her bed and curled up under Chris’s cloak. He sat next to her.

“I hope he stays in Baria for a few days,” she said, wiping her nose with the corner of the cloak. “Or forever, but I’m not holding my breath.”

Chris smiled humorlessly. He turned the bracelet on his wrist. “I think the Emperors are splintering, Akari.”

“I thought they must be,” she said matter-of-factly, and Chris turned to her with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like you’re surprised,” she snapped, sniffling. “Ilya had General Mizael’s sword for the gods know what reason all while saying that Durbe’s not dead _yet_ , Alasco is dressed in his worship best and beside himself with glee about taking care of _traitors_ and being sure that Durbe will never be back – you forget, I was a respected bookbinder in my home village. I know how to pay attention to details.” She coughed. “Gods, I hope they hurry up with my tea.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, aside from Akari’s sniffles and occasional coughing bouts, but this gave Chris a chance to think about what to say to her next.

He had seen her brother that morning. More than that, he had spoken to him, and Yuma was now the Captain-Commander of the Astral Guard after apparently winning a duel with the former Captain-Commander. He looked terrible; his body was covered in bandages (broken ribs, he’d heard), his jaw was swollen, and unless Chris was mistaken – he was sure he wasn’t – Yuma had been crying. Chris wasn’t sure how Yuma had even won a duel against a Dragoon – all accounts said it had been brutally one-sided in the former captain’s favor, who inexplicably had looked ready to kill before throwing the duel at the last second.

 _Is Akari okay?_ he'd asked, and Chris assured him that she was. This alone seemed to give Yuma some peace.

Still, Yuma had a plan, and it was actually not a terrible plan. People would die – Chris made sure to bring that up – but Yuma was resigned to that fact.

_Not as many as would die in other plans._

The thing that Chris didn’t want to tell Akari, though, was that Yuma deliberately planned for himself to lead the mission.

_“You’ll probably be the first to die,” Chris said after a lengthy silence. “The Barians… want you dead more than they want anyone else dead.”_

_“I know.” Yuma stared into his breakfast, a barely-touched bowl of mashed berries. “But they have to trust me. This… it-it’s how I am going to gain their trust. By assuring them that I’m not gonna make them do anything I’m not willing to… to do too.”_

_“You’ll probably have to kill.”_

_Yuma bit his quivering lip and set his breakfast aside. “I’ll… I’m not gonna think about that, Lord Arclight, but if it saves lives… maybe I can reconcile it.” He wiped his eyes and rolled up the map on his lap. “And if not, well… I probably won’t live long after that, anyway.”_

He hadn’t elaborated.

“I miss my brother,” Akari said suddenly, pulling Chris from his stupor. “I just want to know that he’s okay. Or at least alive.”

“He’s alive,” Chris said quietly, immediately regretting doing so for the conversation that was going to happen next.

“Have you seen him?” Akari’s voice was hopeful.

“I—“ Chris sighed heavily, wishing the tea would get there faster so he would have an excuse to stall. “I… have.”

“When? How is he, is he okay?”

“Today… and…” He couldn’t lie and tell Akari that her brother was fine. Yuma was far from fine; he was borderline self-destructive and his body had taken a heavy, near-fatal beating from someone who, by all accounts, had been Yuma’s closest friend.

The Chris of a month ago would have had no problems lying to Akari, but he had already promised himself not to lie to her anymore.

“Not really,” he finished reluctantly.

“Not really?” she echoed, sitting up. “What is that supposed to—“

“Remember when you asked last time if his friends were taking care of him and I said—“

“—that he was taking care of them?”

“Yes.” Chris touched the sword next to her. “He… doesn’t… I-I mean, he—“

There was a knock at the door and Chris seized the opportunity to rush to answer it. The servant held out the tray, with two cups of tea and a bowl of honey, before informing Chris that the bath would be ready in five minutes. Chris thanked him and closed the door, carefully carrying the tray of steaming tea back to the bed. He set it on the end table and picked up a spoon, busying himself with dumping honey into Akari’s cup.

Akari grabbed his wrist, and he dropped the spoon with a jolt.

Her fingers tightened around his soul gem, and no matter how hard he tried to pull away he couldn’t; she climbed off the bed and stood right in front of him, letting the cloak fall to the floor. It was like having a shock from shuffling one's slippered feet on the rugs, except prolonged. He felt his face get wet, and knew he was crying.

She was crying too, silent tears, terrified tears. He didn’t know what she felt, holding onto his soul gem, but she didn’t let go.

“Is Yuma going to hurt himself?” she whispered, and he saw the fear in her eyes.

He finally managed to pry her fingers away; the steady jolt in his body vanished, leaving him holding onto the end table for support. Breathing heavily, he choked out an answer. “If he thinks… he has to… yes.”

Akari sank back on the bed, covering her face with her hands. “Damn it,” she said in a muffled voice. “Why does he… have to b-be like _him—“_

Chris picked up the spoon and handed her a cup of tea, pulling her hands away from her face and wrapping her hands around it.

“Drink this,” he whispered.

“I have to see him,” she whispered back.

He knelt next to the bed, still holding the cup up, because if he let go, he feared she would drop it all over herself. “He had a specific task for us, Akari.”

“And what is that?” she asked bitterly, sniffing.

His eyes flickered toward the sword sitting next to her. “We have to defend Arclight.”

“This isn’t even my home,” she whimpered.

“It’s important.” Chris’s hands tightened around hers. “If Arclight falls, everything’s over. Anything he’s suffered, anything he _will_ suffer… will be in vain.”

This made her cry harder, completely losing her grip on the tea; he took the cup that he was helping her hold and set it back on the tray. Then he sat on the bed next to her, wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and let her cry into his chest.

* * *

 

Forks of lightning flashed above the topmost tower of the Barian palace. The window panes rattled against the rain and hail pounding the structure, thunder shaking the very floor within. It was an angry storm, far worse than Durbe had seen in years.

 _How fitting_ , Durbe thought idly as he shifted his knees on the uncomfortable stone floor. _The sky is weeping for the death of my kingdom._

The trial – no, the _sentencing_ , Durbe reminded himself, because he would not receive an actual trial – had been delayed because Ilya was late, but now they were all here, six figures in their formal robes sitting in a semicircle around Durbe. Half the lords wore disgusted looks as they gazed down upon the kneeling figure, two looked troubled, and the last lounged in his chair, head leaning on his fist in an almost bored way. The room was lit only with a handful of small, glowing red Baria crystals that cast a strange shadow over the lords.

“Durbe, you know why you’re here.” Polara was one of the lords looking on him with something that resembled pity. She, at least, had always treated him fairly. He doubted this time would be the same.

“Yes.”

Her dark green eyes narrowed as she pushed her braided hair behind her and pulled a piece of paper from inside her robes. “Why don’t you share with us exactly what it was you and Mizael have been plotting for three decades?”

“I’m sure Vector has told you everything already.”

He caught a flicker of self-satisfaction cross Vector’s face. He fought the urge to clench his fists and instead turned his attention back to Polara.

She crossed her arms. “I hope what Vector says is an exaggeration typical of him.”

“Do tell.”

“I wouldn’t be so flippant with this situation, Durbe. If even a small portion of it is true, you will be executed.”

“I’ve already been stripped of my title. Those loyal to me are all dead. There’s _nothing_ to compel me to explain myself to the likes of you.” He met her eyes unflinchingly. She gazed back at him for a moment before leaning forward in her seat, consulting the paper in her hands.

“As far as we can tell, you have, from the time you were a young recruit in the Barian military, studied politics of other kingdoms to work out a way to overthrow the Barian lords and establish yourself as king. You orchestrated the attack on the Dragoon village inside the Astral border to gain support from the military, which propelled you to become a lord in your own right. Over the course of the past several years, you and Mizael, with whom you were oddly close, directed events leading to the Barian Empire’s assimilation of Arclight, Heartland, Astral, and Tenjo in your favor. You did remarkably well, since we more or less gave you two of those kingdoms. You were well on your way before things started to crumble.” She lifted an eyebrow as if to say, _well?_

Durbe gave a quiet laugh. “That about sums it up.”

“I see now where Mizael’s impertinence has rubbed off on—”

Vector straightened in his seat and held up a hand, cutting off Koche. “So for thirty years, you and Mizael plotted together and lied for each other, risking your lives to keep your secrets. How deep did it go? Did you _love_ Mizael?” His voice held more than a hint of mockery.

There was an outbreak of muttered oaths at this question. Durbe tried and failed to meet Vector’s gaze, instead finding himself staring at the lord’s feet.

“I trusted Mizael with my life,” Durbe said evasively. “And he trusted me with his.” _And his faith was misplaced, it seems._

“That’s not what I asked.”

“That’s the answer I give.” This time, he forced himself to look up.

Vector settled back, a satisfied look in his eyes that was illuminated by a flash of lightning. If he had a mouth, Durbe was positive he would have a bright smile on his face. Not only would he be executed for being a traitor, but no matter what he said now, Vector would have him executed for treason in the midst of a scandal. He would forever be demonized in history books as the Barian lord who shared his soul with his most loyal general as they plotted the upheaval of their government. And Vector would be the one to receive the credit for uncovering both.

It was perfect, how well Vector played the other fools. He always was a top-notch actor.

“You do not deny, then, that you and your subordinate were soulbound?” Polara’s voice cut through the continued murmurs from the other lords. Ilya’s face alone showed no surprise; after their conversation at the library, he expected it. She wouldn’t say anything without letting on that she had kept Durbe’s secret to herself.

Despite his calm defiance of the lords to this point, Durbe couldn’t keep from squeezing his eyes shut. He didn’t want to answer. It wasn’t any of their business. What did it matter anyway, now that Mizael was dead?

“You’re already in serious transgression, Durbe,” Koche intoned. “It would behoove you to answer the question unless you want your execution to be as drawn out and publicly humiliating as we can think of, especially as you underwent a blood oath on your inauguration swearing that you had never been bonded.”

“Why?” His voice was almost petulant. Unfitting. He didn’t care.

Polara tossed her hair back again as she leaned down to stare at Durbe. “Why do we expect an answer? Because we told you to. You do as you’re told, Durbe. You are no longer a lord, and cannot choose to ignore us when it suits you.”

His eyes flickered from Koche to Polara as a clap of thunder rattled the room again. “What does it matter whether I answer? I committed treason. Nothing I say is going to change that, and nothing I say is going to make my death any less humiliating.” He pulled his shoulders back and lifted his chin. If he was going to die, at least he would die with the little bit of dignity he had left in him. He would die with his memories of Mizael lying with him in bed, arms wrapped around each other in a moment of reprieve from the loneliness, despair, and fear that had defined their existences. He would die with his memories of the way it felt when Mizael touched his gem, the way Mizael’s pure, beautiful energy surged through his body, the overwhelming feelings Mizael had contained for decades flowing into him, the perfect completeness he felt as Mizael gave him his soul, the relief he felt in Mizael, who knew that no matter what, he could die peacefully and whole.

His memories of that single night of weakness would be his alone, his one reminder that there had been one creature on the earth who loved him despite his failures and broken promises.

Vector had often accused him of being too soft, too much like the human whose body he took more often than he spent in his own. He was probably right. But being human wasn’t that bad. It made him feel more alive than he had ever felt. He regretted that he had never let himself love Mizael before. That it had taken nearly three decades for him to realize what Mizael felt for him, and what he had felt in turn. It had taken three decades for the pair of them to become whole in one another. But it _had_ happened, if only almost too late, and that made all the difference to Durbe. Though part of Durbe had literally died with Mizael, part of Mizael literally lived in Durbe.

He refused to share that one perfect moment with these monsters.

Alasco let out a soft noise of revulsion. “Your refusal to speak on the issue leads me to believe that it’s true. You and Mizael had an improper relationship. Disgusting. How long did it go on? All these years? Is that why Mizael followed you with no complaints? Is that why you defended him so vigorously?”

Alasco… Alasco had murdered everyone in Durbe’s village. He was responsible for… everything. And for a moment, Durbe contemplated saying something about it to the others. How Alasco went behind the backs of the other Emperors, sacrificed dozens of peaceful Barians, and did so with a poisoned plant that he would later pretend he had never seen. It had been Alasco, then, who gave the secrets of the plant to a tyrant who tried to kill Durbe, who had almost killed Mizael…

Durbe felt a thrill of fury course through his body, but remained silent. It was not the time, and perhaps would never be again. He had waited too long to act on his discoveries. Perhaps, if the opportunity presented itself, he would share his suspicions with Ilya…

It was almost amusing that he now felt he could trust Ilya to a certain extent. _Too little, too late_.

He silently pleaded with Kaid, with his mothers and his friends in that village, forever tormented with revenge, to forgive him for failing them. He knew he would never receive that forgiveness, but maybe his death would bring them some of the justice they longed for. Maybe his death would bring their souls peace.

Koche stood. “It appears we will get nothing else out of him short of torturing him. I propose we take a vote on his sentence.”

Ilya spoke for the first time, her normally lilting voice trembling. “He has admitted to treason of his own volition. I see no reason to—”

“Before you decide how I am to die,” Durbe interrupted quietly, causing Ilya to jump slightly in her seat, “I would like to explain why I did what I did and why I don’t regret anything.”

“I don’t think—“

“I did it,” Durbe went on as though Alasco hadn’t spoken, “because while you bastards sit around on your thrones of crystal in your distant palace, thousands of the people you pretend to govern are suffering from disease and poverty, and you don’t give enough of a damn to lift a finger to help them. You aren’t fit to be their rulers. You claim—“

“That’s quite enough of that,” Polara said sharply. “You—“

“—you claim,” Durbe said, his loud voice drowning her out, “that I have committed treason in my efforts to unite and strengthen my homeland, but ask yourselves—“

“Durbe, be silent!”

“—who are the real traitors to the Barian Empire?”

Durbe’s voice rang through the tower. Each lord wore a similar expression of disbelief, except Vector, who looked mildly surprised at Durbe’s outburst. Perhaps, if they hadn’t known the partial truth behind his relationship with Mizael, they would have sentenced him to a public hanging. It would have been humiliating, but quick.

But with this, he would experience so much worse. Treason, scandal, _and_ open defiance would guarantee him an excruciating death.

“I think,” Vector said quietly, pulling himself slowly to his feet, “that Durbe has just asked us to burn him alive. To take away his lapis and throw it in the fire and watch his disgusting human body blister until his weak little lungs draw their last strangled breath of ash and dust while his life energy smolders. He clearly wished to live as a human. He should die as one, don’t you think?”

Once again, Durbe was forced to feel Vector’s thin fingers claw into his cheek. To look Vector in the eyes as he failed to mask the fear and grief filling his own.

“But don’t be sad, Lord Doobles.” Vector patted his cheek with his free hand. “Your friends are waiting for you in Hell, your loyal generals and your dearest friend. You can be together forever. You can suffer together forever in your sins. Isn’t that what you wanted all along?”

For nearly thirty years, Mizael had done everything to give Durbe the chance to save their home. In the end, it cost him his life.

In the end, Durbe had failed, both his kingdom and his other half.

“I guess you win, then,” Durbe whispered.

Vector’s soft laughter followed Durbe as rough hands grabbed him, ripping off his lapis, forcing him with excruciating pain into his human form, causing him to scream as his skin crumbled away into dust, panicking when his air was cut off until his human mouth shredded his face open. It followed him as his cloak and vest were ripped from his body, as he was yanked down the stairs from the topmost tower all the way down to the dank, freezing dungeons. Someone spoke, something about a delay, but Durbe didn’t register more of the words than that, or any of the pain as he was shoved into a cell and chained to the cold stone wall.

All he could hear was Vector’s laughter, and all he could do was lean his head against the wall while he shed the last of his tears.

* * *

 

For a week, Kaito barely moved from his bed, and Lord Faker barely left his side. There was nothing wrong with him that the Healers could find; his heartbeat was normal, his breathing steady. He had no fever, despite being hot. Occasionally, when he did open his eyes, he complained of an excruciating headache, or asked for Haruto or Christopher Arclight, before falling back asleep.

His hand never released his sword.

Faker never had the heart to voice Haruto’s fate out loud. He didn’t even know what happened to Haruto, only that Kaito, the night he destroyed the infirmary, had seemed to be in anguish that he had somehow been responsible for whatever transpired. Now, Kaito didn’t seem aware that Haruto was gone.

Faker had never regretted how he treated Kaito in recent months so much.

There was a late afternoon storm brewing outside, though from what Faker could see of the sky on the far northern horizon, it was mild compared to whatever was happening in Arclight.

A deafening clap of thunder woke Kaito.

He stared at the ceiling, lying very still. When Faker whispered to him, his gaze flickered to Faker’s face, head not moving, before returning to the ceiling.

“Kaito?” Faker whispered, reaching for him, but a horrible sound stopped him cold.

“Seven have become six,” Kaito rasped, and he sat up suddenly.

“Kaito, you shouldn’t be—“

“It is time,” Kaito said in the same eerie, emotionless voice, “for me to wake. I have work to do.”


	68. Empty Spaces

The storm continued to beat against the palace at Baria, though the burning rain, quaking thunder, and white-hot lightning flashes paled in comparison to the storm raging within the palace walls.

The six remaining lords sat in a semicircle, Durbe’s vacant chair painfully obvious as each vote cast over what to do with the disgraced ex-emperor ended in a draw. Alasco pushed especially hard for a public execution in the nearest village square – an event that hadn’t happened in nearly six hundred years – while Polara insisted it be limited to political and military leaders in the city. Pherka supported Polara, adding her concern that a public execution would show the fractures in Barian leadership, which would reopen old wounds between the elite and the average citizenry, wounds that had been tentatively patched for the past ten years.

“His motives were clear,” Koche said, fist clenched on his chair. “He said himself he wanted to overthrow this regime and raise a single king over the land. He wants Barians to live like _humans_. We have to make an example of him.”

“An example, or a martyr?” Pherka shot back. “If even a small number of the lower Barians think he was fighting us to make their lives better, it _will_ make matters worse. There _will_ be an uprising that makes what’s happening in Heartland look like a few petty break-ins and an out-of-control bonfire.”

“All the more reason to show the lower Barians that we will not hesitate in putting an end to such mindsets,” Alasco scowled, crossing his arms. “Our authority will not be undermined—“

“Our _authority_?” Pherka’s voice echoed loudly through the stone chamber. Ilya couldn’t remember the last time she had shown anger this way. “Though they barely knew what he _looked_ like, the lower Barians strongly supported Durbe. He was the first Barian who was like _them_ , in the _entire_ history of this kingdom, to become a lord.”

Alasco snorted derisively. “ _Like_ _them_? You mean weak in power, sickly, uneducated—“

Ilya spoke for the first time, feeling the anger burning inside her to the point where she was unsure she would be able to hold it back. “Do not mistake _uneducated_ for stupid, Alasco. He was, after all, not only the first Barian from an outer village to become a lord, but he was the only Barian in our history to penetrate the Dragoon wards. And you forget that I, too, despite my privileged parentage, was uneducated.”

Unsurprisingly, his face contorted into an unmistakable sneer. “I said no such thing, Ilya. But if the lower Barians see Durbe as someone to emulate, then showing them what happens to people _like him_ who seek to upset the balance of this empire will make them think again before acting out.”

“If you think they will be intimidated by our _authority_ in executing Durbe in front of them, you’re a bigger fool than I could have imagined,” Pherka spat. “Do you even remember what happened last time the lower Barians thought the Emperors were pushing their _authority_ too far, Alasco? Like a stick, each individual Barian is weak and easily broken, but try breaking a whole bundle of them at once. See then how dangerous a sickly, weak-powered, uneducated populace can really be.”

“That’s enough of that,” Polara said quietly. Alasco sat back in his chair, glaring at Pherka, who glared right back. “The reason there are seven emperors is to keep a deadlocked vote from happening. However, since I am the senior emperor, I am the deciding factor, and I do not wish Durbe to be executed in the villages. He will die here, in the city.”

Alasco’s hands convulsed in what was unmistakably anger. Pherka, breathing hard, slowly leaned back against her seat. Her hands loosened their grip on her chair slightly. She had gotten worked up, which was incredibly rare – of all the emperors, Pherka was usually the least emotive. But while Ilya was puzzling out what could have drawn this rage out of the stoic fifth emperor, Vector jumped in.

“If his death is not to be made publically humiliating, then at least it has to be very painful.”

“Why?” Polara said wearily, rubbing her eyes with one hand.

Vector swung his legs over his chair arm and lounged, his foot kicking the side of Alasco’s chair. Alasco scowled again. “He _betrayed_ us. He betrayed _all_ of us – you heard him! He wanted to get rid of us!” He gestured wildly at the ceiling with the hand that wasn’t propping his head up. “Once an emperor, always an emperor, see? He was going to kill his fellow lords and take over the empire.”

Begrudgingly, Ilya had to admit that Vector was right about one thing – Durbe _had_ plotted their collective downfall. She didn’t completely buy into Vector’s murder conspiracy, but… well, the only one who could tell her Durbe’s plans was Durbe himself.

If there was anyone plotting murder out of the emperors, they were in this room right now, having succeeded in getting Durbe executed for treason, and working steadily on killing the rest.

She was suddenly aware of the other five staring at her.

“What?” In order to maintain that she had been listening the whole time, she gambled on a tone of mild disbelief, as if someone had asked her an absurd question. Fortunately, it seemed to pay off.

“Why don’t _you_ do it?” Pherka said icily to Vector, which only reinforced to Ilya that the statement she hadn't paid attention to  _had_ been absurd after all. “ _You’re_ the one who’s hellbent on burning him alive.”

“While I would love to be the one to do Durbie in,” Vector said smoothly, “I think it would be a good time to bring up that I suspect Illy is a _teensy_ bit sympathetic toward Durbie and should use this opportunity to prove that she isn’t in on his schemes.”

The silence that followed was such that even the storm outside seemed to pause. Even Alasco lifted his eyebrows at Vector.

Ilya’s fingernails dug into the palms of her shaking hands. She had several things to say to him, but none was strong enough for the rage she felt, which coursed through her veins even stronger than it had when Heartland had tried poisoning her. Her voice, miraculously, remained soft and even. “What fucking _suspicions_ could you have for my alleged _sympathies_ , Vector?”

Vector didn’t even blink. “You spend all day collecting Durbe for his trial? Mizael’s sword disappears? You show up late to Durbe’s trial with no explanation, after arriving to the palace muddy and disheveled? You don’t say anything throughout the course of the hearing?” He held up a finger for each listed action. “Seems strange, is all.”

She wanted to punch his smug face, to burn a hole right through the solid flesh, but she contented herself with melting the crystals inlaid in the arm of her chair. “I don’t have the fucking sword,” she seethed, “and it’s none of your goddamn business where I was.”

“Ilya,” Polara warned in a weary voice.

“It is when you were late for an incredibly important trial of another emperor,” Vector said, dropping his mock-curious tone completely.

“Like you’ve never been late for a meeting!” Ilya was out of her seat now, ignoring Polara’s hissed orders to sit. “You were gone for two weeks and never said another word about it! Why is it, _Vector_ , that the rest of us have to answer for all our actions while you get to do _whatever_ _you fucking please?!_ ”

Vector joined her in standing. He wasn’t terribly tall, not the way Pherka or Koche were, but he still towered over her like everyone else. He looked down at her, a horrible leer on his face, and whispered, “Do you need me to bend down so you can reach my face to hit me like I know you’re _burning_ to do?”

Pherka grabbed Ilya around the shoulders and pulled her away from Vector; it was perhaps fortunate, as Ilya was fully prepared to incinerate Vector where he stood. It did not, however, stop her from screaming at Vector as Pherka dragged her toward the door.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? For anyone who dared speak against you to be put down?” She struggled against Pherka’s grasp, determined to get in the last word. “At least Durbe was transparent! We all knew he was weak when it came to his generals, we all knew he was desperate for a power grab and we all knew how to reel him in. But no one knows what _you’re_ up to, Vector! Durbe was right— _you_ are the real threat here!”

Polara stepped between Ilya and Vector and muttered to Pherka to get Ilya calmed down while she dealt with the others, and Pherka didn’t argue as Polara ushered them out of the chamber.

“You don’t have to escort me like I’m a child,” Ilya said hotly as the door slammed closed behind them, the loud voices in the room immediately muffled, but Pherka didn’t loosen her grip.

“Durbe was too vocal about the others,” Pherka said in an undertone, leading Ilya down the spiral staircase, “and look where it got him. Do you really want to share the hangman’s noose next to his pyre?”

“Is that a threat?” Ilya replied, matching Pherka’s voice level, though her tone was considerably angrier.

“It’s a warning.”

They walked along the hallway toward the lords’ quarters in silence, Pherka tense and Ilya still shaking with anger, but Pherka had finally let go of Ilya’s shoulders. They stopped next to Pherka’s door, and she fumbled with the lock before shoving the door open.

“Sit down. I’ll get you a drink.”

“I don’t want one,” Ilya snapped.

“I wasn’t asking.” Pherka pushed Ilya into the room while reaching down the front of her robes for her soul gem. In a flash of light and a spike of energy, Pherka’s unreadable Barian face had been replaced by her dark-skinned, equally unreadable human face – or rather, her usually unreadable human face. Now it was lined with tension, with her eyes narrowed so much they were almost shadows on her face, and her teeth biting her lower lip as she crossed the spacious room toward the fireplace. She pulled a bottle full of an amber liquid from the mantel and procured two small glasses from a desk near the window.

Ilya straightened her robes with a jerk and followed suit, joining Pherka in sitting in the uncomfortable, straight-backed chair offered to her. She looked warily at the drink; ever since Heartland had tried to poison her wine, she had little fondness for alcohol. But Pherka emptied her glass in one breath and didn’t keel over, so Ilya experimentally sipped at hers and grimaced.

“Don’t like it?” Pherka poured herself a second glass.

“Tastes like burnt toast and perfume mixed with honey,” Ilya said sordidly, setting it aside.

Any of the others would probably have laughed at Ilya’s distaste for the drink, even a forced laugh, but Ilya had never known Pherka to laugh. Indeed, Pherka simply set down both the bottle and her empty glass and stared at Ilya.

“Where is Mizael’s sword?”

Ilya regretted setting the glass aside, because she would have liked something to do with her hands at that moment, something that would have bought her time or eased the uncomfortable silence, but instead she leaned into the side of the chair and stared into the fire.

Pherka crossed her legs. “Has it come to this, Ilya?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“We all know you took it.”

“Then I guess we don’t need to have this conversation.” Ilya was halfway to her feet before Pherka used her bare foot to shove Ilya back in the chair. Ilya gritted her teeth. “For God’s sake, I don’t have it. I gave it back to its owner.” She decided not to mention Christopher Arclight or Akari Tsukumo taking the sword out of the mud, or the fact that the graves had been desecrated – by Alasco, no doubt, looking for the missing sword right before Ilya arrived in Arclight – but at any rate, it was true. She had intended to give the sword back to Mizael. It was too handsome a sword to be in Alasco’s hands, anyway.

Pherka furrowed her eyebrows. “Its owner?”

“Mizael.”

“Hm.” Pherka tapped her finger impatiently on the side of her chair. “Back in Arclight then, where Alasco has access to it.”

“It’s just a sword,” Ilya said stiffly. She wondered if she would be able to make a break for it when Pherka was preoccupied, but what came next rooted her to her spot.

“It’s not just a sword. It’s one of two Dragoon blades that’s supposed to have a lot of power behind it. Filled with Dragoon blessings for speed and balance, so I’ve heard.”

Ilya frowned. “What would Alasco want with a Dragoon blade? Surely it doesn’t work for Barians—“

Pherka _tsked_ impatiently. “Mizael used it for a decade. All accounts state that he was not only a gifted archer, but a very talented swordmaster as well. Self-taught, of course.”

“So… you’re saying that this sword will help its owner become a skilled fighter?”

Pherka reached for her bottle again, ignored the glass completely, and took a drink. “I didn’t say that. Mizael might simply have had a proclivity for swordsmanship. I would just prefer Alasco didn’t have any more advantages than he has already, imagined or real.”

And there it was, Ilya thought, the reason for Pherka’s irritation and paranoia.

“Are you frightened of Alasco, Pherka?”

Pherka stared at the fire, the lines on her face becoming more pronounced with the shadows the flickering fire cast upon her face. For a long while she ignored Ilya’s question – ignored Ilya completely too, for that matter – and Ilya began to worry.

It wasn’t that she was worried about Pherka’s silence, or sudden taking to hard drink, or suspicion of another lord – these qualities were hardly exclusive to Pherka of late – but she worried for _Pherka_ , the one emperor who never laughed or cried, who rarely lost her temper or showed any other kind of outward emotion, who had screamed at another lord half an hour ago and now looked deeply concerned as she stared down the bottom of a bottle.

“Mizael was an anomaly in more ways than most of us recognized,” she said finally, still not looking at Ilya. “They brought him to the mines when he was a child, put him deep, deep in the veins, so no one had to interact with him. If the isolation didn’t kill him, they thought, at least the dank air would eventually choke off his breath like it did with all the others.”

Ilya froze in her seat. However uncharacteristic of Pherka it was to show emotion, this was something else entirely, because Pherka never, ever talked about her time as warden of the prison mines.

“I was in charge when they brought him in,” she went on flatly, gesturing to the side of her face. “Incomplete Barians like him were rare, but I’d seen a few before and I didn’t care to see another. I just had them send him down and assumed he would be dead within two months like the others.” She swirled her bottle a bit and the small amount of liquid left in the bottom sloshed around. “I only remember him specifically because I had just instituted a new mining procedure when he was brought in that limited the number of cave-ins and increased production of purer crystals. It was a tremendously efficient extraction process, but it required more labor because the prisoners would die at higher rates. Exhaustion and suffocation occurred daily… and my guards would make an example of those who tried to escape. I never did come to understand how Mizael survived six years in the mines before they dragged him out to fight the Dragoons. Even fully mature Barians were lucky to make it to three.” She drained the last dregs from her bottle and rested her head against the back of her chair.

Though Ilya was both horrified and fascinated by Pherka’s insight into the prison system, she couldn’t understand what this had to do with the events transpiring right now with Durbe’s execution. “But—“

“I needed more labor, so I began spreading out the search for new prisoners,” Pherka continued as though Ilya had not spoken. “I arrested villagers in the valley for petty crimes, and sometimes no crimes at all. The Barians in the city lauded my efficiency, but the lower Barians hated me… eventually banded together…” She closed her eyes. “The thing Alasco fails to see is that even those lower Barians can become powerful when they have a common goal.”

And suddenly, everything made sense.

“It was a nightmare. We had to make arrests in droves to put down resistors, and others we had to kill outright.” With a movement so sudden it made Ilya jump, Pherka hurled the empty bottle into the fireplace, where it shattered against the stone and scattered broken glass across the hearth. “Making an example of them never worked. It only made it worse.” She stood, walked over to the fireplace, and rested a hand on the mantel. If the glass cutting into her bare feet hurt, it didn’t show on her face. “They figured out a way to taint a piece of crystal that made its way to me, so that when I took it in, it poisoned me.”

Ilya’s heart, pounding from Pherka’s violent movement, now shuddered almost to a stop.

“It wasn’t intended to kill me, the way the poison used on Mizael was. It was meant to cripple me, make me so weak I couldn’t stand, let alone use my power. I recovered after a while, but the conflicts with the lower Barians persisted for years. Among the lower Barians, Durbe was the most well-received lord who ever lived, and it is entirely because he came from poverty like the rest of them.”

Ilya knew this much; when Durbe had acquired popularity and power after his plan to wipe out the Dragoons, the lower Barians offered a deal in exchange for Durbe’s ascendency to lordship: they would work the mines in rotations, willingly, and they would shut down their riots. It had worked well enough for ten years; the mortality rate among miners plummeted. But Ilya understood Pherka’s concern: they would definitely not take well to Durbe being killed in front of them.

“As far as I’m concerned, the lower Barians need not know for a long time coming that the lord who represented them best has been executed.”

Silence fell again, save for the rain wailing against the window.

Ilya’s thoughts turned, as they so often did of late, to the paper she had uncovered in the archives. Was it simple coincidence that both Pherka’s history and her prophesized death included poison?

“Pherka,” she said hesitantly, because there was no easy way to broach the subject. “Do… you believe in fate?”

Pherka turned her head slowly. The firelight glinted off the silver in her ears. “Fate?” she repeated in a deadly quiet voice. “You sound like _him_.”

There was no need for Pherka to elaborate on who she meant by _him_. Durbe had been the only one of the seven to mention fate in any tone other than derisively. “I guess the answer is no, then.”

“There’s no magic force in the world that controls our lives.” Pherka looked away again, toward the unadorned stone wall above her mantel. “God doesn’t care what we do with ourselves. Probably thinks it’s funny to watch us fuck everything up.”

Ilya couldn’t argue with that. But she pressed it anyway. “The lord that Alasco replaced… Sai. He died from an infection that spread rapidly through his body.”

Pherka narrowed her eyes at the wall. The shadows on her face made her completely unreadable. “Get to the point.”

“It was the same poison that almost killed Mizael, I’m sure of it.”

This time, Pherka’s body language betrayed her tenseness. Her hand clenched on the mantel and she lowered her head, back to staring into the fire. “Why do you think that?”

Ilya stood and approached Pherka, gingerly stepping around the glass with her slippered feet. “I read the Healer’s report. Sai died of an extreme fever. The infection spread so fast that Healers couldn’t keep up with it. Water evaporated as it touched his skin. He barely breathed, he couldn’t sweat. It cooked him from the inside and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it.”

“You know a lot of specifics.”

“I saw Mizael at the worst of the poison, Pherka. It was exactly the same. I refuse to believe it was a coincidence.”

Pherka shoved herself away from the fireplace and stood, arms crossed, on the shattered glass. Her feet bled but she didn’t even flinch. “You’re saying that Alasco killed Sai and took his place.”

“‘We know that at least one among you murdered another lord to take his place,’” Ilya recited, voice so quiet she wasn’t sure Pherka had heard it at all.

But Pherka’s mouth thinned, her jaw clenched, and Ilya knew Pherka understood.

“Then Durbe is hardly the only lord with a plot against us,” she said finally, looking away again.

“What do we do?”

“We?” Pherka shook her head. “I don’t care what you do, but I will wait. Durbe and Mizael spoke out. Now Mizael is dead and Durbe is two days away from joining him. I suggest you keep quiet about it for now, or you’ll be next.”

Maybe Ilya had been sure that Pherka would accept her concerns, maybe she hoped Pherka would join with her in finding proof to bring Alasco’s crimes to light, but it seemed she would be on her own, with nothing to go on but conjecture and paranoia and a faded, crumpled piece of paper with a few handwritten words on it.

But there was one more person who might have the information that she didn’t, and who had nothing left to lose.

“Where are you going?” Pherka said to Ilya’s retreating back.

“To Heartland,” Ilya said, voice shaking with anger. “Tell Polara to keep Vector away from the city or Durbe won’t be the first lord to burn.”

She slammed the door shut behind her and stood, motionless, in the hall. Across from her, the rain sizzled as it came in contact with the crystal windowsill. Never, in her entire life, had she been through a storm that lasted with such intensity for as long as this one.

Something big was going to happen.

Before she could talk herself out of her plan, she turned down the hallway toward the staircase leading down to the dungeons.

* * *

 

Kaito woke with a start.

He was face-down in a patch of mossy mud, the sharp earthy scent filling his nostrils and mouth. He had only a few seconds to register his own confusion over being in a forest – wasn’t he just in the Waste? – before rough hands grabbed him and rolled him over onto his back, where he stared up into the scarred face of Thomas Arclight.

Thomas stumbled back as though he had unearthed a venomous snake. But Kaito paid it little attention; his clouded mind searched for a reason he was here, probably a hundred miles from the Waste. He could barely remember anything… there had been the revenants in the village, and they had begun telling him where to find the Dragon—yes, and then… Chris had been there… but it wasn’t really Chris, it was—

His hand reached instinctively for his sword, and the sound of a dozen bows being notched pulled him back to reality.

Thomas Arclight was not alone, and Kaito should have known better than to ignore his surroundings. Now that his mind was clearing, he saw that Mihael was there, as well as what could have been a few dozen – probably more – ragged men and a handful of equally ragged women scattered through the forest. All were armed; some had bows (many pointed at him), others swords and knives, and others had spears or clubs. A few familiar faces stood out to him as well – Droite and Gauche were standing a few yards behind the Arclights, and the mage who had been traveling with the captain, and the animal woman was perched in a nearby tree.

“What the hell have you been doing, Kaito?” Thomas’s voice was harsh as he waved down the archers, who lowered their bows slowly.

It was a good question, and one Kaito barely knew the answer to, but he did know one thing, and it was important to say it now. “General Mizael is dead.”

Mihael and Thomas glanced at each other. Mihael bit his lip and Thomas shoved the hair from his eyes, scowling.

“We know,” Mihael said after finally looking away from his brother.

“What?” Surely, Kaito reasoned, they couldn’t have heard _already,_ unless Mizael’s body was somewhere in this forest too, even though his body was supposed to have returned to Durbe – but Mihael answered his question in the same undertone, as if hoping to keep his words quiet from the rabble behind him.

“He’s been dead for almost two weeks, Kaito.”

Kaito’s eyes darted from one face to the other and back again, hoping to see something that would tell him they were playing him, trying to get him to react, because Mizael couldn’t have been dead two weeks already, and he, Kaito, couldn’t have been face-down and unconscious in the muddy forest for two weeks—

—but nothing happened. Their faces remained confused, angry, and suspicious, and Kaito was forced to acknowledge that something was very, very wrong.

He reached out a hand to open a portal – even if Prince Astral was unable or unwilling to help him, it was possible that whatever was inhabiting Ryoga Kamishiro’s body, if it was still there, had a connection to the Astral World, and Kaito had so many questions that only the two of them could answer – but nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing happened.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“Where are you trying to go, Kaito?” Thomas demanded. “Showing up here after no one’s seen or heard from you in nearly two weeks, what makes you so eager to leave again so soon?”

There was no choice, Kaito decided, but to be truthful. “I need to see Captain Kamishiro.”

At the captain’s name, Thomas ground his teeth so hard Kaito could hear it, and remembered too late that it had been the captain who gave Thomas the ugly scar across his eye and almost blinded him.

“We don’t know where he is,” Mihael supplied quickly, correctly interpreting his brother’s ire, “as he left with Captain Tsukumo and a smaller group of soldiers and they weren’t open to saying where they were headed…”

He continued talking, but Kaito was only half-listening; he zeroed in on the one part of Mihael’s explanation that caught his attention.

“ _Captain_ Tsukumo?”

Mihael stopped abruptly and frowned. “Yes, he won the title in a duel against the captain-commander.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He switched his attention to Thomas again. “Why would they duel? Is this some kind of joke?”

“Mihael has never made a joke in his life,” Thomas replied bitingly, ignoring his brother’s noise of indignation. “Accounts say that the _captain_ beat Tsukumo to within an inch of his life before throwing the duel at the last second for no apparent reason.”

Kaito was burning to ask more questions – why they had fought a duel to begin with, why Ryoga would try to kill Yuma, what direction they were headed – but was interrupted by a man’s voice in the midst of the crowd behind the Arclights, demanding to know why they were standing around.

Thomas waved a hand impatiently. “Keep going, but stop a mile to the edge of the forest. Stay quiet, and _no fires_.”

The rabble moved on, pushing past the Arclights, who kept their gazes on Kaito. Behind them, Gauche and Droite approached, watching Kaito with heads tilted. The animal woman hung upside-down from a tree branch by her legs, and even she was staring intently at his face.

“What?” he demanded.

Thomas reached forward and unsheathed Kaito’s sword before Kaito could react, and held it up, point down. “Look at yourself,” he said in a low voice.

And in the reflection of the gleaming blade, Kaito did.

His face was pale and lined with stress, but his eyes… He touched the skin around his eye, where there had once been a blue mark to symbolize his betrayal. But now both eyes were unmarked, and instead of one eye being red, both were the same grey-blue they were before he gave his soul to the Barians.

“What…”

He pulled at the collar of his shirt, expecting to see the pulsating veins over his heart from the failed soul gem extraction, but the skin there was just as smooth; not even a mark marred it now.

A month ago, he would have been filled with relief, with joy – but the blank spaces in his memory where the last two weeks should have been filled him with nothing but an impending sense of disaster. And there was something really important he knew he was forgetting, though he had a nagging feeling there was no way in hell he should ever have forgotten it.

Worse, he felt a pull to the northeast, so strong it was as though an invisible rope were pulling him that way. And if he was in Arclight, that meant he was being pulled—

“Where are we?” he asked quietly, not looking at either Arclight, because he already knew.

“Western Arclight, about a five hour march to the Galaxy River,” Thomas answered, and Kaito felt Thomas’s gaze on him.

Kaito finally lowered his sword. He couldn’t tell the Arclights that he was being pulled to Baria, that he needed to get there as soon as possible, because they would want to know why and he didn’t have a reason. He couldn’t make portals for whatever reason, so he couldn’t just leave. Heading overland would take weeks and he would risk running into Barian patrols that would slow him down. The river would be able to take him west to Arclight in just a few days, and from there he could take a fast horse northward and get there within the week…

Not that there wouldn’t be even thicker hordes of Barian detachments the closer to the Barian capitol he got, but he was far from concerned about that. In fact, he was sure he would have no problems taking care of them, though this newfound confidence was even more unsettling than the mysterious disappearance of his markings.

“Why are you headed toward Heartland?” he asked, sheathing his sword at last.

The brothers exchanged another glance before Mihael answered. “We’re taking the city back.”

“Good.” Kaito’s voice felt far away. There were plenty of ships in the Heartland harbor; stealing one would be a cinch.

_You’ve never steered a ship before,_ a tiny voice in the back of his head reminded him.

It couldn’t possibly be too hard, he assured himself.

“I’ll come with.” He felt the corners of his mouth curl upward, though nothing about this situation was amusing. “Let’s drive these demons back to Hell.”


	69. Hope and Despair

The farther northwest they marched, the colder it became. Though it was nearly summer on many parts of the continent, the mountains that made up the natural border between the Arclight and Astral Kingdoms did not enjoy the changing of the seasons quite so readily. Yuma expected the mountains to be cold as he and his band of three dozen crossed into Astral Kingdom; what he did not expect was a constant deluge of freezing rain to follow them the whole way up.

Fresh water was never a problem on these stops; making a fire out of damp twigs was. Yuma showed his former bandits how to scrape at the outer layer of bark to expose the drier wood beneath, but this task quickly became arduous. The fire it produced was rarely hot enough to boil water for tea, which many of the party needed to keep warm against the cold. Many had developed coughs; others could barely hold their weapons in numb fingers. A few had shoes so worn that their skin showed through. Though they varied in age, more than a third had not yet reached adulthood, and only ten – Yuma, Ryoga, and Reina included – had served in any military capacity before.

If they found themselves in a serious fight, it would be a slaughter.

Kotori was in particularly bad shape. Though she too had chills and a cough, her first concern was Healing those who injured themselves on the trek up the mountain or had developed their own illnesses. Her energy was spent. Yuma called for several breaks, each time they encountered a place on the mountain with large enough natural shelters to shield them from the rain. He spent most of this time with Kotori, trying to warm her up, but there was only so much he could do when he struggled to make fires and could offer only tepid tea.

Shark Drake didn’t notice, or maybe he didn’t care, that so few of their party were fit for battle. To anyone else, Ryoga Kamishiro alone showed no signs of discomfort from their situation.

 _You could at least pretend to be suffering with the rest of them,_ Ryoga said around midday. They had stopped under a huge rocky outcrop that may have once been home to a bear or other large predator, judging by the still-decaying skeletons they had to clear out before setting up fires. It didn’t keep the rain out entirely, nor did it shelter all of the group, but it did allow for the sickest among them to have some reprieve. Those left out in the rain threw together makeshift shelters using blankets and tent canvases draped over tree branches. Shark Drake stood, arms crossed and scowling, in the middle of the rain. Though Ryoga’s long hair was tied back, some still fell into his eyes and across his face, and Shark Drake made no effort to wipe the plastered strands away.

 _They will not be sufficient,_ it said for the ninth time. _A group of one hundred was my minimum estimate for this plan._

 _It isn’t_ your _plan,_ Ryoga retorted. _It’s Yuma’s plan._

 _And there is our problem._ Shark Drake drove the butt of Ryoga’s lance into the mud. _I am not convinced he knows what he is doing, or even that he wants to follow through with this plan. That farce of a duel only proved—_

A shrill noise, unmistakably a birdcall, pierced the air. The entire camp went silent.

Again, but this time with the unmistakable high-low-high progression of a western mountain towhee.

Instinctively, Shark Drake turned Ryoga’s head toward Yuma, who was crouched under the rocky overhang next to Kotori. Kotori’s face was pale, her lips tinged with blue, and her eyes were  wide with terror. Yuma looked much the same, but he held Kotori’s shoulders protectively as he stared down the rugged mountain path. Ryoga knew what he was thinking – the call signaled that the Barians were only a mile away. In this terrain, with the sheets of icy rain washing down the unkempt trails, it would take an average human party of twenty perhaps half an hour to climb to this position, if they were in good shape. Unfortunately, they had no way to know if there were ten Barians or fifty, and at the rate this motley band had been struggling up the mountains, the Barians would overwhelm them within the hour.

They had two choices: run and delay the inevitable, or stay and fight – and likely be massacred.

Shark Drake hefted Ryoga’s lance in his hand. _I have waited eons for this opportunity,_ it said, sounding satisfied.

 _Even I can’t take on an entire company of Barians single-handedly,_ Ryoga replied. _This… this little group of humans isn’t prepared for battle. They’ll die. We’ll all die._

 _They should have considered this before taking up arms against a foe they are ill-equipped to handle,_ Shark Drake said indifferently.

Yuma seemed to be having a similar thought process; he stared at the wide-eyed faces of the frozen and exhausted rabble with the weariest look on his face Ryoga had seen in weeks. “Everyone with a bow, take high ground,” he said loudly, though his voice wavered. He closed his eyes for a second, cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. “Trees, preferably,” he continued, stronger now, “or atop the overhang. Stay out of sight as much as possible.”

There was some murmuring at this, but roughly a third of the party scattered quickly, most climbing trees, but a few taking position above the trail, behind the rocks. Yuma caught Reina’s arm as she pushed her way through the prickly protection of an evergreen and muttered something Ryoga couldn’t make out. She opened her mouth as if to protest, seemingly changed her mind, and nodded stiffly. Yuma clapped her on the shoulder as she turned away and resumed the arduous process of climbing through the pine needles.

“The rest of you,” Yuma announced, waving his hand toward the steepest part of the path, “this way. Quickly.”

He wrapped an arm around Kotori once more and led her up the mountain, helping her along though she stumbled every few feet over the rocky, slick terrain. The bandits followed, some slipping and falling into the mud as they went. Among them was Astral. He kept his hood low over his face and his head down – a good thing, as the rain would surely have washed the makeup from his facial markings by now with direct exposure – but he clamped his pale hands over the side of his head as though trying to drown out a sound. Shark Drake, in its eternal rage over everything not going its way, hardly noticed, but Ryoga had observed Astral muttering to himself ever since Yuma had come back. It wasn’t reflective, either; he would often say something and wait, listening with a pained or angry expression, as though a voice were speaking in his ear before shaking his head and arguing with himself again.

As far as Ryoga was concerned, this behavior indicated either that the gods were communicating directly with Astral, or that the stress and trauma of their months of torment and malnourishment and lack of sleep had finally driven Astral into a permanently paranoid state.

 _Follow Prince Astral,_ Ryoga directed Shark Drake, who made an audible growling noise.

_Why should I?_

_Something’s wrong with him._

_And how can you tell?_ the god demanded.

_Because, as you constantly like to remind me, I’m a pitiful human who lets my emotions dictate my actions. I can tell when something is wrong with another human._

For once, Shark Drake didn’t argue. He easily caught up to the struggling prince and grabbed his arm with more force than was necessary, pulling it away from Astral’s head. But Astral didn’t look up, or even stop moving up the mountain.

“I told you not to touch me,” he mumbled, slipping a little on a river of clay, and the response took Shark Drake aback so much he let go. Astral straightened himself on a rock and kept going. “It’s bad enough that you won’t stop _talking_. I don’t like when you touch me, too.”

Ryoga’s reaction was exactly that of Shark Drake’s, and it was impossible to tell which of them was responsible for responding. “What the hell are you—“

A strangled scream pierced the air.

“They caught up.”

Shark Drake’s head snapped around; Yuma and Kotori were closer than either he or Ryoga had realized. Kotori’s hand was on Yuma’s chest, clenching a fistful of his shirt. She was crying silently. Yuma, for his part, was clearly scared but holding himself together. Another yell filled the air, closer this time, and Ryoga knew they had only one choice now.

“We have to fight,” Yuma whispered, holding Kotori’s shoulders.

“No,” Shark Drake growled, grabbing Astral’s arm. “We have to kill every one of them to make sure they don’t come back in greater numbers.”

Ryoga expected Yuma to argue, to insist that they could hold off the Barians long enough to escape, to pick a different path up the mountain, but Yuma didn’t. His mouth quivered.

“Kotori,” he whispered instead, leading her to a rock scramble as Shark Drake followed, dragging Astral along, “hide here. Don’t make a sound. I’ll—I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

“Yuma—“

He pulled off his cloak and draped it over her. “Stay here.”

“But—“

“I’ll stay with her.”

Astral had finally regained his composure. He pulled away from Shark Drake’s grasp; Shark Drake was too stunned to resist.

“Thank you, Astral,” Yuma said quietly, and Astral turned his gaze to him.

“May the gods keep you safe,” Astral murmured before ducking out of sight behind the boulders with Kotori.

Yuma closed his eyes. His hand grasped his sword hilt. Every inch of Ryoga wanted to grab Yuma, to shove him behind those rocks too, to keep him from having to fight, but every inch of Shark Drake was filled with satisfaction, and Shark Drake was stronger than he.

“The gods don’t give a damn,” Yuma whispered, pulling out his sword, and all hell broke loose.

Instead of retreating up the mountain, Yuma made his way back down the way they had come, his feet steady despite the slippery clay and half-concealed rocks all the way along the path. Shark Drake followed, flexing its fingers on the lance in anticipation of battle.

And then they saw their first Barian, wearing the unmistakable white uniform of the Astral Guard.

Ryoga seethed with fury, matching Shark Drake’s own. But before he could do more than take a few steps closer to the Barian, Yuma closed the distance and rammed his sword into its gut.

Before the Barian had even finished falling to the ground, crimson blood staining the fabric, Yuma pulled his sword free and moved onto the next one, effortlessly swinging his sword in an arc that slit its throat.

For a moment, Shark Drake froze.

Ryoga tried to call out to him in desperation – this wasn’t Yuma, this _wasn’t Yuma_ – but the only noise he managed was a grunt, and Shark Drake was acutely aware of it.

_What are you doing?_

_Stop him!_ Ryoga screamed; it wasn’t Yuma, it wasn’t Yuma, it wasn’t—

But it was. It was Yuma marching down the mountainside, parrying strikes from his wide-eyed foes who only now realized that this human with the dead eyes and casual gait carried a weapon that killed them painfully and in an instant. It was Yuma who slaughtered five Barians in the time it took Shark Drake to join the fray. It was Yuma, the same man who had for nearly two years been haunted by the lives he had taken in battle, who had sworn to stay his hand, wanting never again to feel the life of another choked out at the end of his blade.

It was Yuma, his Yuma, with no expression in his face and Ryoga was helpless, because Shark Drake had control of his body and the Barians were now pouring up the mountainside by the dozens. A few engaged Yuma at the same time, perhaps hoping to overwhelm him by sheer numbers, but by the grace with which Yuma spun his sword and body, parrying and dodging and striking, he was about as bothered as if he were repelling a mangy coyote.

Ryoga was terrified and he could sense even Shark Drake’s apprehension as it struck down the enemy.

 _What have you bastards done to him?_ Ryoga screamed, unsure if the warm moisture on his cheeks were from his overwhelming emotions manifesting themselves or if it was more rainwater.

 _Now is not the time, Ryoga Kamishiro!_ Shark Drake thrust the lance into a Barian’s neck, nearly decapitating it. Ryoga felt the sickening crunch of bone splintering as his lance severed the Barian’s spine in two. _He is doing what needs to be done, and if you continue to distract me, I will have the others trap your tainted soul on another plane for the rest of this body’s worthless existence!_

Ryoga fell silent – Shark Drake was right about one thing; if the god was distracted in the heat of battle, it was Ryoga’s body that would pay the price – but he couldn’t stop the desperation, the fear, the hopelessness from seeping through, and he was sure Shark Drake was aware of it. Worse, a couple dozen Barians had broken through the front lines of the archers, had bypassed Ryoga and Yuma, and were making their way up the mountain; they were now engaged with the rabble.

As Ryoga feared, they were no match for the Barians.

Several had already fallen, though dead or alive Ryoga couldn’t tell; others fared reasonably well at parrying attacks but were clearly too physically exhausted to continue much longer. Most swung their swords like they were swinging a club, which left them wide open for an easy, quick strike. It was about to become a slaughter, and Ryoga was too far away to do a goddamn thing about it.

And then, above the screams and clashing of metal against metal, of metal on rock, of groans and whimpers and prayers and sickening squelches of weapons entering bodies… a voice, supplicating the gods.

Shark Drake kicked a Barian away and half turned to see Astral standing on the rock scramble with his hood pulled from his face, ignoring Kotori’s sobbing requests to get down. The green markings on his face almost glowed on his nearly translucent skin. He gripped the key around his neck so hard that even from fifty yards away, Ryoga could see the blood it drew.

And as every Barian turned to look at him, the very air went still and silent.

“Crimson conqueror who unifies chaos,” Astral rasped in a voice that was barely even his own, “release the eternal seal, and in one flash blow away the darkness! Descend, King of Wishes! Hope!”

And suddenly, the still air exploded in a flash of red light; the very mountaintop seemed to explode. High above them, the heavy storm clouds converged, creating a massive wall of black fog that sucked in all light aside from the crimson aura blazing from the figure coming from inside it.

It was Hope, Astral’s summon, except its armor was not gold, but crimson and black; the sword in its hand was double-edged and wickedly curved. It landed on the mountain, twenty feet tall, and surveyed the carnage with empty eyes.

“Our foe attacks us,” Astral said in a high voice. “Send them back to Hell.”

* * *

 

The stench in Durbe’s cell overpowered Ilya as she unlocked the door and pushed her way inside. It was a bare cell, with no bed or pallet or board or blanket to sleep on – only the cold stone floor – with a single chamber pot just within reach of the starved and pathetic ex-lord, bound by chains, hunched against the wall. Ilya would not have believed he could look worse than he had in the library before being brought in for his trial, but then, she could not have imagined him chained to a wall in a cold cell, stripped down to his thin undershirt and filthy trousers, body pulled close to keep any remaining body heat from escaping.

“They were supposed to bring you a blanket to sleep on and food twice a day,” she said, voice shaking with anger. Her fingernails dug into the crumpled cloak in her arms. “I see at least half of Polara’s order went ignored. Have you been fed?”

If she hadn’t been staring intently at his huddled body, she would have missed the tiny shake of his head. She huffed. “Has anyone even been down to check that you were still alive?”

Durbe’s mouth moved wordlessly, but even Ilya could read the name on his lips. It sent a chill through her body.

“What did he want?”

In response, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

She took a step forward, paused. _You’re not here to comfort him,_ she reminded herself. She cursed the fact that she’d let herself get attached to him at all. “Durbe, what did he want?”

“He killed them, Ilya.” Durbe’s voice was hollow. “Alit and Gilag.”

Ilya felt a wave of nausea wash over her. “How do you—“

“He told me.” Durbe shook his head, limp hair flopping. “He… he gloated about it.”

“You mean… he hinted at it to make you think—“

“No.” Durbe looked up, face twisted in a grotesque combination of fury, sorrow, and deep, deep fear. “He didn’t hint at it, Ilya, he told me outright that he killed them.” He took another shuddering breath. “He—he told me—” His face crumpled. “They were dead because of me. That I—I sent them to their deaths.”

Ilya shook her head slowly. “Why didn’t you say anything, you idiot?” His eyes flicked downward – a gesture of embarrassment, shame, regret – and Ilya felt angry in addition to sick. Her hand clenched, fist shaking. “Don’t tell me you were scared of him, too.”

Durbe wiped his face on the back of a dirty hand. “He… he knew things, Ilya, he—“ His breath hitched in his throat, and no more than a garbled noise left his mouth. But Ilya didn’t need him to go on; she knew what Durbe’s motives had been for keeping silent. It wasn’t just a desire to keep Vector from spilling any of Durbe’s secrets, though. He was scared – terrified – that Vector would kill Mizael the same way he had killed Alit and Gilag. Unless Vector simply killed them to demoralize Durbe – which she wouldn’t put past him – they must have uncovered something Vector didn’t want anyone else to know.

Pherka’s warning rang in her head. _Keep quiet, or you’ll be next._

But _could_ she stay quiet while Vector continued doing whatever he pleased, murdering anyone who stood in his way?

“Ilya,” Durbe tried again, hoarsely. “I… I want you to be the one to do it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want—I want you to be the one to… to light the fire…”

She felt another wave of sickness and placed a hand to her mouth. “For God’s sake, Durbe—“

“Please,” he pleaded, leaning as close to her as he could with the chains in the way, “I just want it to be quick.”

“I don’t want—“

“He’ll drag it out as long as he can, he wants to hear me scream, to beg him to—“ Durbe stopped to take a few jerky breaths. “He’ll take pleasure in every second of it, Ilya, I-I-I just want it to b-be… I’d rather it be someone I…”

She kept her lips tightly pressed until the desire to vomit passed. She didn’t know what word he was about to use to describe how he felt toward her – _like, trust, begrudgingly respect, tolerate_ – but if he thought it would make her feel better about what he was asking, he was sorely mistaken. “He _wants_ me to do it, Durbe.”

His entire body shook. “Then… do it. Now.”

“I’m not going to kill you. Goddamn it, Durbe.”

He pressed his face to the dank wall. “This is the only thing I want. My last request. Please.”

“The only thing _you_ want?” Ilya’s temper, always close to the boiling point lately, flared up again. “And what about what _I_ want, Durbe? Did you think about how _I_ might feel about you asking me to commit murder for you?”

To her surprise, his mouth twitched upward. He gazed at the wall, eyes lifted up in sorrowful reminiscence. “He used to say that to me, too.”

She exhaled slowly. If all he wanted was to die, with whatever misguided hope that he would be able to see his generals again, did it really matter if she followed through with the true reason she was here?

“I found something in the archives recently,” she said. “Before any of this business with your treason happened. A book, with short biographies of each of us in it.”

He finally looked up at her.

“I thought things sounded too suspicious when it came to how Vector and Alasco rose to power,” she went on, voice steady. “A fever? Suicide? I didn’t buy it. But what bothered me most was this.” She took the crumpled, faded paper from her pocket and held it out to him. He didn’t take it, but his eyes moved straight to the handwritten postscript at the bottom. He mouthed the word _drowning_ , face etched with suspicion. She shoved the paper back in her pocket and answered the unasked question.

“There was a word at the bottom of your page, too.”

“Execution,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Pherka’s called for poison and Polara for killing herself.”

“The others?”

“Nothing.”

For a second, his cold, calculating expression reminded her of what he had once been. He processed Ilya’s information with little outward emotion. But when he spoke, his voice was harsh. “Vector.” He shifted in his chains, eyes slightly unfocused and eyebrows furrowed, the way he used to look when contemplating something. “He brought the accusation of treason against me. He’s been threatening me with it for years, even more frequently in recent months. His plan was to get me executed after all.”

“He killed your generals,” Ilya said. “If you had the opportunity…” She let the suggestion hang. There was no need to voice it.

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

She stepped closer, trying to ignore the potent odor the disgraced ex-lord gave off from his days of confinement, and pulled out a set of keys. “I requested of Polara that you be granted the dignity of being unchained,” she said conversationally, trying to inhale as little as possible of the stench without passing out from lack of air. She knelt next to him and unlocked the chains binding him to the wall. “Despite your treason, you did many great things for this empire.”

He rubbed his bony wrist but did not move. “You’re going out of your way to help make my last moments comfortable, yet refuse to spare me the inevitable pain and humiliation of my execution?”

She dropped a key and the thin, crumpled cloak in his lap and stood up, turning her back on him so she didn’t have to see his reaction. “The guard will forget to lock the door, and you will escape. As proof, the key will be hanging on the hook near the staircase to the dungeons, where it should be. And you will find your soul gem in Polara’s quarters, where she will conveniently be gone in Heartland for the next several hours to help me with some of the problems plaguing the city.”

She was almost to the door when Durbe spoke, his voice shaky. “Why?”

It was the same question she had grappled with for the past three days. And maybe, had she never entered the archives and found the ominous prediction of her death, she might have left it alone. She liked Durbe, but certainly not enough to risk being executed alongside him.

Her fingers rested atop the crumpled paper in her skirt pocket, a habit she had of late. Vector had planned Durbe’s execution, years ago, and Ilya would not let it happen. If he succeeded in doing that, then what was to stop him from following through on his chilling prediction of Ilya’s own death?

_Drowning._

“It won’t be your fate to die this way,” she said simply, “unless you want it to be.”

He didn’t say thank you this time, nor did she want him to. She never expected to see him again, either. Nor did she want to. He didn’t have to accept her help, but by God it wasn’t selfish of her to hope he would so she didn’t have to light his execution pyre with her own hands.

“The next guard will be around to check on you in sixteen minutes,” she said, opening the door, “and again, an hour past that.”

“Ilya.”

“What?”

Durbe’s voice trembled. “Alasco poisoned my village. He knew about the poison, and gave it to Heartland. It was in Kazuma Tsukumo’s journals. It was because of Alasco that…” He trailed off.

She didn’t turn around, and ignored the stifled shuddering breath he drew. She would grant him the dignity of not watching him cry. But his testimony against Vector… this accusation against Alasco…

“The book I had when we left the library,” he managed, voice shaking. “That’s where you’ll find it.”

It wasn’t fate that she was to drown, no more than it was Durbe’s fate to die at the execution pyre. It was an orchestration of mortal beings seeking power, and Ilya would not stand by and let it happen.

“Goodbye, Durbe,” she murmured, and closed the door behind her.

* * *

 

It was strange, moving on his own devices without wrestling for control, but Shark Drake had other things to worry about than Ryoga walking around a mountaintop looking at the mutilated Barian corpses, namely, the hellish manifestation of the King of Wishes that Astral had summoned to the battle and used to massacre twenty Barians in the space of about two minutes.

He knew when the god returned, there would be another kind of hell to pay. It was best to take advantage of it while he had the chance.

He found Yuma a short way from camp, sitting in the mud under a tree with his arms wrapped around his knees, pulled tight to his chest, with his face buried in them. He didn’t need to ask what bothered Yuma. The bodies littering the mountainside and the blood cascading down the rocks like melting crimson snow were enough. Every Barian out of nearly fifty had been killed in the attack, and Yuma had been responsible for a quarter of them.

He dropped the sword next to Yuma and waited.         

Yuma scrambled away from it, as though simply being near it would give him a terrible disease. “I don’t want it,” he said in a rough voice, and Ryoga could see his face, covered in tears, and Yuma could not pretend it was rainwater.

“It doesn’t matter what you want anymore,” Ryoga replied, crossing his arms. “You’re the captain-commander now. These people are expecting you to lead them against the Barians.”

“I don’t want to be,” Yuma sobbed, fingers scratching at his neck. “I never wanted to be, I wish he had never given me that goddamn sword—“ He thrust out a hand, a broken leather cord clenched in his fist. Ryoga knew that Yuma held his necklace, the fang that had once been Mara’s, had once been his, the symbol of the captain-commander.

“It isn’t mine.” Ryoga stepped forward and pushed Yuma’s hand out of the way. “This is your journey.”  

“I want this journey to end.”

As Yuma lifted his hands to his face, Ryoga saw the thin, bloody lines on Yuma’s arms, and somehow knew they were not from the battle. He instinctively reached out, stopping himself short of grabbing Yuma’s hand just in time, and inwardly cursed his lack of control now that Shark Drake had temporarily left his body to his own devices. It was back _then_ all over again, when Yuma sat on the bare cot in the infirmary, pleading with Ryoga to let him die, because death would be more merciful than continuing to live with the guilt over his own hands taking lives in malice. Back then, Ryoga didn’t attempt to comfort Yuma; the pain over losing Mara was still fresh, the confusion and anger still overwhelming, every fear he held over the future of humankind still piercing. But Yuma didn’t need comfort, then. He needed a reminder that life meant something, that his soul was not beyond redemption, that there were still great things in store for him, and that was what Ryoga gave him. It was tough love, maybe too tough, but Yuma understood and became a better man for it.

“Your journey is not yet over,” Ryoga said simply.

“Why did you do this to me?” Yuma whispered, and he did not seem to be aware of Ryoga’s near slip, didn’t register that Ryoga’s hand was too near, or that Ryoga was not looking down at him with anger or hatred, the way Shark Drake did, but with concern and fear. “ _What_ have you done to me? Every time I’m in battle I—I can’t stop, I don’t want to do it, but I kill, I kill without mercy and I don’t want to but I can’t _stop_. Why did you make me this way?”

He was asking Shark Drake, Ryoga realized, unaware that Ryoga Kamishiro was the one standing before him now, grappling with the temptation to reach out and take Yuma into his arms, away from this place, away from this terrible responsibility, away from this terrible fate.

Back _then,_ Yuma did not need comfort, and though he desperately did now, Ryoga couldn’t give it to him. The last time he and Yuma had tried to find comfort in one another, to mute their grief even for one lonely night, they had crossed a dangerous line, one which neither could erase.

“What happened to Astral?” Ryoga said instead.

Yuma’s eyes widened; his face blanched. “What… what do you mean? What happened to—“ He made to stand, but his shaking legs gave out and he was left half-hugging the tree he leaned against for support. “Is he hurt?”

There was no way Yuma _couldn’t_ have noticed the perverse, corrupted Hope being summoned to the mountainside – it would probably have attracted attention all the way from inside the Astral Kingdom’s borders – but the terror on his face was real, and Ryoga knew there was something more to Yuma’s bloodthirst in battle than even Yuma suspected.

 _What if Yuma isn’t Yuma when he fights?_ Ryoga mused, and it would make sense. He wasn’t Ryoga Kamishiro when Shark Drake fought with his body; then again, he remembered everything, was aware of everything around him, while Yuma apparently had short spans of time where he was unconscious of everything he did except that he held the sword that killed.

“He summoned Hope, but it was filled with Barian energy,” Ryoga said. “Sh— _I_ could sense it.” _Shark Drake could sense it_ , he had almost said, which was why the emissary had left his body to begin with; the need to return to Astral World to converse with the other gods about this troubling breakthrough was so strong that it didn’t even care that it was leaving Ryoga Kamishiro in control of his own body again.

Yuma didn’t notice this slip either; he let out an anguished cry and collapsed with a thick squelching sound into the mud, body wracked with a shaking so powerful Ryoga might have mistaken it for a seizing fit if he hadn’t known better. “Oh gods!” he cried, not as a curse, Ryoga realized, but as a prayer, a supplication, “forgive me, I did it, _I did it—_ “

Yuma’s hand found the hilt of the discarded sword and for a moment, time stopped.

All Ryoga could see was his sister, holding the rapier. All he saw was her body, motionless on the floor, her life taken by a decision she had made believing all was lost. He had buried Rio with his own hands, had lost himself in guilt though her last words implored him to stay true to himself.  The grief that followed had led him to give up his body and soul to a monster that stripped him of his humanity, even as the man he loved deteriorated because of him. 

He had lost Rio, he had lost himself, but he would not lose Yuma again.

Ryoga threw himself at Yuma, pulling them together into the mud on their knees, with his arms wrapped like a vice around Yuma’s shoulders. He could feel Yuma’s body shake and his grip on the sword weaken, but he only tightened his own grip on Yuma; he buried his face in Yuma’s wet, stringy hair but he didn’t care because at that moment, he was in control of his own body, could give Yuma even the superficial comfort he desperately needed.

And Yuma gave himself over to Ryoga at that moment; the sword fell in the mud with a faint squelching sound as Yuma slumped into Ryoga’s arms, his hysterical sobbing muffled by Ryoga’s shoulder. Still Ryoga held him, silently, because there was nothing to say, nothing he could say or do but allow silent tears to fall in solidarity. Yuma must have realized on some level that this was _his_ Ryoga, not Shark Drake, for his empty arms wrapped clumsily around Ryoga’s waist. But he cried, he prayed, he cursed the gods, and Ryoga let him until Yuma’s sobs turned into gasps for breath.

Ryoga pulled away enough to look at Yuma’s face, covered in tears and rainwater and mucus, red and spotty, and he looked terrible but Ryoga placed a hand to Yuma’s cheek anyway.

He wanted to kiss him – it might be the last chance to do so before Shark Drake returned, maybe the last chance he would ever have – but it wasn’t the right time, or the right opportunity, or the right place. When Yuma leaned forward, Ryoga moved his hand to Yuma’s chest to push him gently away.

He was spared answering Yuma’s unspoken question when someone spoke behind him.

“Captain?”

There was no way to know how long Kurosaki had been standing there, or how much he had seen of the private moment. But neither Ryoga nor Yuma could afford to lose the tenuously earned respect of the bandits.  Yuma tensed; Ryoga released his grip on Yuma as casually as he could muster.

“What were the casualties?” Ryoga didn’t turn around.

“Most are injured, three are dead.” Kurosaki’s voice was stiff. Ryoga heard Yuma whisper _oh gods_ and press his face in his hands, but Ryoga kept his own composure.

“And the Barians?”

“No survivors that we know of.”

Only three casualties against a much larger force of Barians. One small mercy, for the time being. Though judging from Yuma’s pale face, maybe not everyone would consider it a mercy.

“Who were the casualties?” Yuma asked in a small voice. “From our camp.”

Kurosaki rattled off two names, but he hesitated before listing the third, which he barely whispered. A friend, then. Ryoga understood that pain all too well.

“I’m sorry,” Yuma whispered.

Kurosaki jerked his shoulders in what might have passed as a shrug had his face not been shrouded in grief. “It was quick, at least. The Healer didn’t even have time to see to his wounds before…” His voice trailed. He looked away.

“Kotori…” Yuma closed his eyes. Ryoga couldn’t tell what Yuma was thinking; was he grateful Kotori was still alive? Sorrowful that three of their band were dead? Anguished over what may have happened to Astral? All three?  “I have to go back to camp. I have to…” He exhaled slowly, waved a hand at nothing. “I’m supposed to lead.” He turned to go, but Ryoga called him back.

“Captain.” Ryoga bent down and picked up the sword. Mud dripped from the reddish blade like water as he held it out to Yuma, who stared at it with disgust. But he took it with trembling hands, sheathed it, and walked away without another word.

Ryoga watched him go, heart aching. The next time they spoke on this plane, it would not be so intimately.

Kurosaki stared at Ryoga with what Ryoga took to be mistrust – his lips were pressed, golden eyes narrowed. But Ryoga knew better than to dismiss this child – for Kurosaki, like many of the bandits, was still a child, barely older than Ryoga had been during the genocide of his people – and he knew that any excuses would do more harm than good. He didn’t know yet what Kurosaki had seen, or what he thought.

So he asked. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m just confused,” Kurosaki replied.

Ryoga gestured for Kurosaki to walk with him. “What about?”

Kurosaki looked over at him, the suspicion morphing into skepticism. “What about?” he repeated. “How about why the Barians found us so easily? Or about that… that _thing_ the summoner brought upon us? Or you and—“ He gestured sharply in the direction Yuma had gone.

Ryoga paused and glanced up into the firs. Water dripped into his face from the needles. “I don’t know how the Barians found us,” he said, more calmly than he felt. “Yuma—Captain Tsukumo—was very insistent that we leave the other group without telling them where we were headed.”

“We let it leak that we were headed south,” Kurosaki said bitterly. “In fact, most of _us_ believed that we were heading toward Tenjo. Yet the Barians followed us here. Were they here to begin with, by chance, or were they sent?”

“I don’t know.” Ryoga tried not to look at the mangled body of a Barian lying not ten yards from him. “I can only assume that they’ll send a much larger force next time, now that they know we’re here. It might be days… or hours.”

There was a long pause. Their group was in no shape to fight again within days, let alone hours. “I lost a good friend, Captain.”

“I understand that.” Ryoga looked at the bandit’s shoulder. He couldn’t quite meet his eyes; the quiver in Kurosaki’s voice had been impossible to miss. “We’ve all lost people we love in this conflict.”

It wasn’t a secret that Rio was dead, and Kurosaki seemed to understand who Ryoga was talking about. He looked at the ground, eyes narrowed at a pinecone on the forest floor. “And the summoner… is Prince Astral.” It wasn’t a question.

Ryoga exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

“We thought he was dead.”

“That’s what the Barians wanted the world to think.”

Kurosaki made a wild gesture with his hand, as though intending to reach for Ryoga’s neck but deciding against it at the last minute. A wise choice. “There was something… evil about that thing he summoned. What the hell happened to him? What the hell happened to _you_ , Captain?”

Recounting the story of what happened to Astral, or to him, would have taken hours that Ryoga did not have. Nor did he want to share it. “Some other time.”

He turned to leave but Kurosaki grabbed his cloak. Had Shark Drake been in control, Kurosaki would have found himself with his head smashed against a balsam. But Ryoga simply fixed Kurosaki with his most withering glare. Kurosaki glared right back, his golden eyes glinting like a bird of prey’s.

“We don’t have time for more idle chatter,” Ryoga warned.

“First, I need to know what I saw.” Kurosaki finally released Ryoga’s cloak. “Just now.”

Ryoga resisted rubbing his eyes with difficulty. If he told Kurosaki to forget it and get moving, the story would blow up in camp and not a damn one of the bandits would look at Ryoga or Yuma with any semblance of respect again. If he admitted there was something there, Kurosaki may or may not keep it to himself for the time being, but it would eventually get out that there was something going on. There wasn’t, there hadn’t been for weeks, and as soon as Shark Drake regained control of his body again, there _wouldn’t_ be.

“You saw two men sharing a moment of grief,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I don’t know what you were taught about Dragoons, but even we were capable of empathy.”

“That wasn’t empathy,” Kurosaki replied, his face reddening. “You were holding him like—like a—“ He looked down, mouth silently forming the word _lover._

“Yuma is my best friend, and has been for nearly two years,” Ryoga said, and saying the words out loud hurt worse than he thought they would. “Think about what you’re saying, Kurosaki, and how ridiculous it is. Now, unless you have more—“

_Ryoga Kamishiro._

The voice filled his head like thunder, giving him a very sudden, very painful headache.

“Damn it, not you, not now—” He ground his teeth against the pain, leaning heavily on a tree for support. Kurosaki said something, but he couldn’t make out any words.

_Ryoga Kamishiro!_

He reached out a hand and blindly grabbed the handkerchief tied around Kurosaki’s throat. The bandit grunted as Ryoga pulled him forward.

“Take me back to camp,” Ryoga managed as Shark Drake screamed his name again. The gods were summoning him back to Astral World, and they were angrier than he had ever heard them. It was about Astral, he knew it; the corrupted Hope that Astral had summoned would have them paranoid and furious and terrified and vengeful all at once. And though he had given no details on how it was his fault, Yuma seemed certain that the corrupted summon had been something he brought on. “I’m going to sleep. It’s important… that when I wake up…”

_Now, damn it!_

Ryoga’s head was about to split open. But he had to make sure Kurosaki understood his last order. “Tie me down if you have to,” he rasped, his vision fading. He was vaguely aware of his knees sinking into the mud. He might have let go of Kurosaki’s neck but couldn’t be sure. The hands on his shoulders, presumably keeping him from falling face-first in the mud, might have been an illusion. “But keep me away… from Yuma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vector's conversation with Durbe did not make it into PoF proper, but if you are interested in the scene I did not include, you can read it here on my ao3, under the title "Monsters."


	70. Gods and Men

Footsteps echoed like small explosions throughout the otherwise silent stairwell with each step Durbe ascended, though he wore no footwear. He knew if he was caught, the others would take him straight to his death pyre; still, even that would be preferable to rotting in his own filth in that moldy, frozen dungeon cell like a common criminal. It would be preferable to Vector tormenting him again, reminding him why Alit and Gilag were dead, ridiculing his love for Mizael.

His legs cramped painfully with each step, having scarcely been moved in a week, and each stair he ascended was agony on his back. His body ached and shook, both from sitting on a cold stone floor for so long and from hunger. Often, he had to pause to let the crippling dizzy spells pass, and to force down the vomit in his throat. He was in no shape to be mounting an escape, yet it was his only chance; he had to be far away from the dungeon, preferably far away from the palace, in the next twenty minutes before the guard found his cell empty and raised the alarm. But at the rate he was going, he would be lucky to make it to Polara’s quarters in that time, let alone unseen.

_Every aspect of your life, from your miserable birth to your village’s demise to you becoming a lord – all the way up to your inglorious death in the near future has been exactly as I wanted it._

_I will not die here_ , Durbe told himself firmly, _not here and not like this._ If his usefulness as a lord had been expended, he would find other purpose for his life. At least until he killed Vector. He was set on that.

The stairwell never ended, so it seemed, and surely twenty minutes had passed before Durbe finally reached the top. But as he cautiously peered into the hallway, there was not another soul in sight, and no alarm had been sounded. Unusual, the palace corridors being empty, but perhaps Ilya had done more than give him the key to his cell and draw the other Emperors away for a time.

He found he had been holding his breath, and exhaled. There was no time to waste.

The cold crystal beneath his feet did not echo the way the stone had, but here and there a rough patch of crystal cut into his bare feet. It stung, but Durbe paid it little mind. It was what he deserved, after all. Even the cold didn’t bother him. Nothing could have been worse than that cell.

His heavy, aching legs carried him through dark, drafty hallways lit only by heatless red orbs suspended every few feet along the walls, past narrow windows being pounded by the acidic rain. He scarcely remembered a sunny day in Baria, yet surely there had been. A storm had raged the morning of his inauguration, but by afternoon when he stood on the balcony to his lords’ quarters for the first time, facing westward to the lands he would one day bring to heel, the sun shone directly on him, bathed him in its warmth and power.

Back then, he spared little thought for the village of his birth, of the fate that befell his mothers and his brother and his neighbors. He regretted that now. He regretted almost everything he had done since leaving that place.

He was almost to the intersecting corridor that would lead him to the lords’ quarters—the hall that spanned hundreds of meters, each lord’s room separated from the others by a private bath and a sitting room—when he heard voices for the first time, coming from the very same hall he was about to walk into.

At the peak of his strength, Durbe was scarcely more powerful than the lowest-ranking officers, and if these Barians were wandering the palace—especially the lords’ and high officers’ corridors—they were among the strongest in the Empire. Here, starved and in pain, he would probably have been on even footing only with an unarmed human toddler. The moment they rounded the corner and saw him…

_Your inglorious death…_

No, Durbe thought firmly, he would not die as defenselessly as a human child. He would not die until Vector’s body fell dead to the ground by his hand, until Alasco met his end, until the justice his brother and loved ones sought after was met and Durbe could sate their desire for vengeance with his own blood at last.

The window closest to him opened silently outward at his touch. Though narrow, Durbe slipped easily through and found himself drenched instantly. But that was fine, he told himself; the rain was almost cleansing, taking the edge off his stale, sour body odors and relieving his dry and flaking scalp. The worst the rain could do was make him lose his footing.

And it nearly did. As he reached his foot down cautiously, searching out the narrow ledge used by the servants to clean and repair the outer windows and walls, his foot slipped on the slick crystal. Had he not caught the window in desperation, he would have plummeted fifty feet to the edge of the gardens and likely impaled himself on the jagged spires of the crystal mountain itself. Breathing heavily, he used the window to straighten his body and regain balance on the ledge, perhaps a foot wide at the most. Panic seized him and caught the breath in his chest as he made the foolish mistake of looking down. Save for a small sliver of the gardens that wrapped around the palace, the south-facing windows looked down onto a steep drop-off. From his position, close to the southwest intersection, he was closer to the gardens but if he moved about five feet to the left, he would be setting himself up for a very, very long fall. His already weak legs shook and threatened to give out on him; he felt a dizzy spell coming and the panic intensified, his breathing became weaker, and the hot rain did not help the heat flash that inevitably preceded a near-blackout.

No, no, _no—_

With nothing to hold onto but the smooth crystal wall and no god to pray to, all he could do was close his eyes and repeat to himself, over and over _, there is no death until justice has been dispensed_. There was no death until there was justice for Kaid, for Mother Ella and Mother Castia, for Alit, for Gilag. He would not dishonor Mizael’s last acts by dying here, on this godforsaken ledge of this godforsaken palace, wearing stinking rags as he hid from those who once bowed to his every command, who now wanted to see him burn.

Miraculously, it worked.

His heartbeat slowed, his vision returned slowly. He breathed in… out… in… out…

And as he heard the voices clearly, heard them pause by the open window, he realized with a renewed thrill of terror that he may have made a fatal mistake: the windows should never be open unattended.

“There’s rain all over this goddamn floor. Who left this open?” Durbe recognized the irritated voice as a moderately high-ranking captain who reported to Koche.

“Just close it and get a servant to mop it up,” a second, unfamiliar voice said tonelessly. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them. Hurry up, Lord Koche wants our squadron in the mountains before sunset. That’s only nine hours away.”

A hand reached out the window and Durbe held his breath. If the officer leaned forward even a little to reach the window handle, there was no way he could miss seeing Durbe standing on the ledge. The panic came flooding back; his breathing became so heavy and ragged that he was stunned neither Barian standing just feet away from him could hear it. In desperation—foolish desperation, as he knew it would never work—he focused the little energy remaining in his body on opening a portal. But he may as well have been trying to summon fire for all the good it did. Without his soul gem to draw on, he was as worthless as a human.

He wouldn’t let them take him, he was set on that; he would cast himself from this ledge and die before he would feel the torture Vector knew how to inflict on his very soul one more time. Inglorious, yes, but the choice would be entirely his own.

The hand jerked back, accompanied by a curse.

“This damn rain,” the first grumbled. “Look at this. It’s like the fire water from the eastern volcanoes is falling from the sky. It’s worse than usual.”

The second Barian tutted impatiently. “You’ll miss the hot rain when we end up being frozen to the core from the ice rain in the western mountains.”

“I’ll miss nothing about either accursed place,” the first said darkly. “Just let Vector take care of those humans and the prince, I say. It’s _his_ kingdom. You heard about the slaughter. I’d just as soon not meet the summon _or_ the devil with the sword.”

“Fortunately, you’re not a lord and don’t get to question what they say,” the second replied curtly. “If you meet the devil with the sword, fight back, he’s only a human. And if the rain bothers you that much, use your sword to catch the latch and pull it closed.”

There was the sound of a sword being unsheathed and Durbe watched the gleaming tip catch the window and begin pulling it closed, first one side, then the other. He didn’t breathe again until the window was closed and the muffled voices were gone.

Despite his terror, he found himself pondering what the officers had said. They were being sent to the western mountains, the natural border between Astral and Arclight. The prince was there, and had Summoned; Barian casualties had been high. But who was the devil with the sword? His first thought was Captain Kamishiro, but no… by all accounts, the lance-wielding captain was barely adequate with a sword.

No time to think about that right now, he reminded himself. At any minute, his cell would be found empty and the palace would be swarming with guards searching for him.

He sidled back to the window. It was simple enough to unlatch, even from the outside; the windows pulled outward and the latch was loose. His fingers were thin enough to slip between the panes; he fumbled with the latch for a moment and finally slipped it upward, freeing the windows to open once more. He strained his ears for the sound of voices or footsteps but heard nothing. With one final deep breath, he pulled the windows open again and slipped inside, knowing that if anyone stood in the hall or left a room, he was dead.

No one was there.

He quickly closed the window behind him again and hurried to the corner where the hallway intersected with the lords’ hall. He had walked this path a thousand times before. His own room was closest the intersection, being the room belonging to the most junior lord.

The _former_ most junior lord, he reminded himself grimly, as the room no longer belonged to him.

He turned the corner, slowly.

Not a soul greeted him. He blew out a sour puff of breath and headed down the hall at a trot, and then at a run. His legs burned, his shins protested, but the hall was so long and he knew the longer it took to reach the very end, where Polara’s room and his soul gem waited, the worse off he was going to be.

He ran past his room, wondering fleetingly what became of his few belongings. Had they been burned? Taken for study? Were they still there? Yet he could not sate his curiosity. His books, his silks, his feather-stuffed pillows were no longer his.

Ignoring the pain coursing through his body and the stitch in his side, he flew past Ilya’s room, and then, with a jolt of fury, past Vector’s; Pherka, Alasco, Koche—

He turned his head. There was a trail of hot rainwater leading down the hall after him like a highroad sign. He hadn’t thought of that, but all the same, maybe it didn’t matter. The second he was pronounced missing from the dungeons, everyone would know where he would go and this trail of rainwater would only prove it. He would get nowhere without his soul gem, nor would any Barian willingly leave such a precious part of themselves behind. His life would be short and painful the longer he was without it.

Well, he thought morbidly, his life was guaranteed short and painful either way he looked at it.

The door to Polara’s sitting room was unlocked, as Ilya said it would be, and Durbe slipped inside. Immediately, he was flooded with warmth; he felt his soul gem well before he saw it sitting on a table by the window next to a pile of books. With all pain temporarily forgotten, Durbe ran around the settees in the middle of the room, desperate to touch, to hold his life energy, his soul and Mizael’s, in his hands.

The moment his fingers touched it, emotions flooded his body and he was brought to tears. But there was a taint to it, almost, a sharp jolt that joined the purity of his own connection to Barian World and the remnants of Mizael’s, and blind anger overcame him.

Vector did this to him, and Vector would pay.

Below him, he heard movement and voices, and knew his time was up. He would be discovered here in minutes if he didn’t leave now. But the books on the table caught his attention as he turned to open a portal—to where, he knew not, as long as it was not here—and he reached for them.

One was Captain Kamishiro’s journal, the same one chronicling the spiritual breakdown of Kazuma Tsukumo’s son. Next was a dusty tome titled _Plants of Sargasso_ , which Durbe puzzled over for about five seconds; inside the cover was a short note in Ilya’s tiny, slanted hand that read simply _Important?_ The final book was the little journal he and Mizael had taken from Kaito Tenjo’s librarian, the book with the Legend of the Dragon scribed within. He had the majority of it memorized, as he knew Mizael had, and part of it echoed in his mind, almost as though it were mocking him.

 _The blood-red city burns, the Dragon striking down the Kings_  
_And as he wields his Sword_  
_Another King is born._

He had been foolish to focus so much of his dream on one little portion of the legend, had been foolish even to let a legend dictate his end goals, because an Astralite text so vaguely worded did not have to mean he was the King to be born—

And with a sudden, crippling terror, he realized, far too late, that he had made a grave mistake.

The kings of Astral _were_ gods; the word “god” and the word “king” were interchangeable in the Astralite language.

As footsteps neared, he snatched up the books and opened a portal, allowing his soul energy to course through his body for the first time in so long that it was like an icy flood had replaced the blood in his veins. He welcomed the power, drank it in.

He knew now where he needed to go.

* * *

 

It was not the highest peak in the mountain range; Yuma deliberately chose the least difficult mountain trail to traverse. But even from the low summit, the view of the Revise River, the forests and villages, and the crystal streams of the Astral Kingdom sprawled in front of him for miles and miles. His own village, adjacent to the palace, was out of sight to the west, hidden from view by a series of hills. Despite his relief in returning home, he was filled with dread at the thought of what he might find when they reached the other side of those hills.

The summit where they set up camp was familiar to Yuma; the same scraggly junipers and red pines and occasional black cherries grew here, stunted from the harsh winds and frozen winters. The same stone lodges where Yuma and his fellow soldiers made camp still stood—a blessing for Yuma’s men now, sick and injured from the journey with desperate need of sturdy shelter with a roof, even if each shelter had been made only with three walls. He had spent many freezing nights in this same place on patrols of the mountainside, sentenced to the undesirable post by a captain who seemed to hate him on principal (or perhaps it was because Yuma had embarrassed him by defeating him soundly in front of the whole Guard), but he made friends, learned the stars and the trees, and found a place of healing from his parents’ deaths.

He found little respite here, now. A few scouts watched the steep trail to the summit for signs of Barians. Though they had set up camp now for five hours, there was no sign of a second wave. But Yuma knew it was only a matter of time. The Barians who failed to check in with their officers or their lords or whoever had sent them would be missed, and more would follow. Of that, Yuma was certain. His men needed rest, they needed food, they needed Healing, but they had twenty miles to go until they reached the palace, and they were being hunted.

A roar of delight went up throughout the party as a couple of bandits charged with finding food dragged the body of a small deer up to the summit. Yuma allowed himself a small smile; he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten something of real substance. His body was weak from exhaustion and hunger, as he knew the others’ were, and though Kotori hadn’t mentioned anything as she changed his bandages and rubbed a cooling salve on his chest, he knew they both noticed his ribs showing against his skin.  

He wanted to help skin and prepare their meal, but the bandits would scarcely maintain eye contact with him, spoke to him only in short sentences and only when they had to, and Yuma knew why. They were frightened of him, just as they were frightened of Astral, who now slept in one of the shelters. Even he would not speak to Yuma, though the gods knew Yuma had tried.

Worst of all was Ryoga. He had fallen unconscious in the forest after talking Yuma out of his most recent bout of self-harm, and had to be dragged up the mountain for nearly half an hour before awakening with a start and threatening to kill not only Yuma but everyone who dared touch him. Yuma knew why, though the bandits didn’t; the god had summoned Ryoga to Astral World once more.

And Shark Drake had been _furious._

Yuma placed a numb hand to his ribs, wincing at the memory of Shark Drake throwing him to the ground, choking him, slamming his head against the ground as the god railed against him for corrupting Astral with the chaotic energy of Barian World, for conspiring with Barians, for lying. Yuma accepted the charges without a word of protest, though the pain was so intense he believed he might black out before Shark Drake finished beating him. The bandits had been pale and reluctant even to approach them. He didn’t know what would have happened had Kotori not intervened. The god’s fury was clearly much more powerful than even Ryoga’s determination not to hurt Yuma.

Breathing wasn’t quite as painful as it had been before Kotori had Healed him but being beaten within an inch of his life twice in as many weeks required more than Healing could offer him. And he hated having her Heal him when she struggled to make the trek up the mountain unassisted, when she doubled over in coughing fits from exposure to the harsh winds and rains, when there was no one to Heal her in return. She should have stayed in Arclight, he thought numbly, because the Barians would never harm a Healer, and at least Yuma would have the peace of knowing that someone he loved and trusted could keep watch over his sister. Yuma chose this life. Kotori didn’t.

A gentle hand touched his forearm and he turned to her. Her soft brown eyes were now hard and tired, and her hand shook.

“I found some mountain’s bane,” she said in a soft voice. “It makes a good salve for muscle pains.”

He gave her a strained smile. “I have broken bones, not sore muscles. But I can ask if anyone needs the salve and direct them to you.”

She stared at the ground, eyes spilling over with tears. “Why would he hurt you like this?”

Yuma didn’t answer right away. Instead, he bent next to his pack and pulled out a still-damp, dirty cloth and handed it to her. Once, she would have tossed it back in his face and told him to blow his own nose on it, but now she accepted it without complaint. She was unsteady on her feet—and no wonder; she was sick and exhausted, emaciated and weak. She hadn’t slept in a real bed in weeks, hadn’t had a real bath, hadn’t eaten a real meal. Neither had he, but he at least was accustomed to rough conditions, being outside, and trekking mountains.

“He didn’t want to,” he said finally, yet the words sounded foolish. Kotori made a sound that was halfway between a snort and a hiccup and Yuma furrowed his brows. “I’m serious.” He reached for her arm, gripping her gently by the crook of her elbow. She glanced at his hand for a second before looking back at him, skepticism in every line of her face. “You know that’s not really him as much as I do. Ryoga would never—”

“Don’t you dare say those words,” she interrupted in an undertone, and he cut off midsentence. “You don’t see what we all see. You don’t see the hatred in his eyes every time he so much as looks at you. He wants to kill you, and—and—” She gestured aimlessly. “If I hadn’t stopped him, he would have. He would have cracked your skull open on this mountaintop.” The silent tears flowed down her cheeks, but to her credit she faced Yuma with her shoulders back and her voice unwavering. “You’re too empathetic, Yuma.”

Yuma tore his gaze away from her and stared at the group of bandits spearing bits of deer on sticks and clambering over each other to get their piece of fatty meat over the single campfire. But here and there was a face of sorrow, a boy sitting a little way from the rest of the group, someone forcing a smile when offered some of the half-cooked meat.

He scarcely knew the three boys killed in the massacre down the mountain, but he knew the pain more than most. Three dead, three friends or brothers or comrades-in-arms, more injured.

It was his fault they were dead and their loved ones grieving because of his incompetence.

Kotori reached up and wiped his face with the dirty cloth he had handed her before. “A captain shouldn’t let his men see him cry.”

“Ryoga’s the captain,” Yuma whispered. He pushed her hand away and scrubbed furiously at his face with the palms of his hands.

“You won that title.”

“No, he gave it to me.”

“This is the problem.” Kotori grabbed his wrists, forgetting they were already bruised and aching. “They know you don’t want to lead them.”

“They do, do they?” Anger flared up in Yuma’s chest now. “Is that what they tell you as they lay in bed weak from your Healing?”

Kotori’s face reddened and she dropped Yuma’s wrists in disgust. “I try to help you and all I get is your ridicule? I thought at least _you_ were a better man than that.”

Yuma bit his tongue. The double meaning of his harsh words may as well have been him twisting a knife in her chest. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, knowing full well it was an inadequate apology; sure enough, she scoffed and turned away. He grabbed the sleeve of her dress. “I don’t deserve kindness from you but I… if I may ask, what is it… they are saying about me?”

He let go of her sleeve. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t move, instead looking at her boots, so worn through in some places that he could see her thick socks.

“It changes,” she said to her feet. “You’re too weak to lead. You’re not a commander. You’re only where you are because… you’re…”

“Ryoga’s friend,” Yuma said quietly.

Her chin quivered, her voice so soft he almost missed what she said next. “Friends… a mild way of putting it.”

Ice formed in the pit of Yuma’s stomach. “What?”

“I won’t repeat many of the things I’ve heard,” she said uncertainly. “You can imagine… how disgusting some of it is.”

Yuma swallowed a lump in his throat and managed to give one jerky nod. He _could_ imagine. A few of these men had been soldiers before the Barian invasion,  and if they didn’t know Ryoga or Yuma in person, it was not unlikely that they knew of their friendship. Some of those rumors might even have been close to the truth. “What else?”

She blew out a shaky breath. “You led the Barians to us. You’re a murderer. You fought so savagely that the only explanation for how you near-singlehandedly wiped out an entire regiment of Barians is because you… _are_ part Barian, or sold your soul to them…”

It continued for a few minutes, Kotori staring at her feet the whole time, and Yuma remained silent, absorbing each slight against his character, his intelligence, his tactics, his virtue, his morality… _They’re scared of me_ , he realized numbly, _they hate me, they don’t think… I’m human._

The gods had said as much, hadn’t they? That despite everything he had done in their names, everything he had done that would please them, everything he had done that had crushed his heart and soul and everything he had given up for their sake—for the sake of the benevolent gods in Astral World, who wanted humanity to prevail over the Barians, who would bless those who served them—he was nothing more than their puppet soldier sent to kill.

It was no wonder Astral didn’t want to see him, or that the bandits now sitting around the fire gnawing at their undercooked dinner cast him occasional looks of fear or disgust before looking away quickly when they caught him staring at them. If he had seen his self-proclaimed pacifistic officer brutally massacre dozens of Barians without breaking a sweat or blinking an eye, as Astral had told him he had done, he would be terrified, too.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice when Kotori stopped speaking and that a second woman had joined them until someone shoved his arm and a sharp jolt of pain brought him back to reality.

“Want some?” Anna held up a short stick with a chunk of still-pink meat skewered on it, dripping juices on the ground at her feet. Next to her, Kotori was praying over her own portion, face wet with tears.

“Mm.” He casually gripped his aching shoulder with his good hand and debated turning her away. But he was so hungry not even his sorrow could drown out his desire to fill his stomach with something other than rabbit and berries for the first time in a long time. “Sure, thanks.”

The poorly-prepared meat was tough and musky, and Yuma had to work at it for a while to tear off small bits that wouldn’t pain his aching jaw. Yet it was delicious to his empty stomach, and he was grateful. “Did you eat?” he asked Anna between attempts at ripping pieces off with his teeth.

Anna watched Kotori nibble at hers like a beaver would gnaw at a tree and entertained a wry smile. “If you could call that shit _food_. Half of it got caught in my teeth and it was like chewing leather. It would have been palatable at least if there was salt and potatoes to go with it.”

Yuma’s laugh turned quickly into a grimace of pain as his ribs burned in protest. He placed a hand over his chest as casually as he could; unless Anna had been conversing with the bandits, she might not yet know about Ryoga beating him half to death. Her shrewd merchant’s eyes lingered on his hand and he suspected she might have figured out he was in pain either way. “No sign?” he asked, to change the subject.

“Another fifty marching about six miles from here,” she said in a bored tone, and for a panicked second, Yuma believed her.

“Lady Anna, please be serious,” Kotori muttered, wiping some juice from her chin.

“Look, if I saw any Barians hanging out in these forests, do you think I would take the time to come offer some of this leathery fat?” Anna said testily. “‘Want some dinner, Captain, oh and by the way we’re about to die’?”

“Who is taking the watch now?” Yuma asked, frowning at her.

“One of the children.” Anna shot the group around the campfire a disapproving look and stretched her arms. “Kuro-something or other.”

“They’ve survived the horrors of war. They’re not children anymore.” Yuma shoved the last chunk of deer in his mouth and chewed the best he could with his sore jaw, hoping for an excuse to end the conversation. Sure enough, Anna shrugged and headed toward one of the open shelters without another word.

Yuma forced the meat down his throat and wished for a glass of wine to wash the slightly sour taste from his mouth. Instead, he rummaged through his pack for something to pick the bits of meat out of his teeth and a few mint leaves.  Kotori knelt next to him, half her portion of deer still on the stick. But she was focused on him.

“Yuma,” she whispered urgently, “please stand up for yourself.”

Finding nothing but a small knife to pick at his teeth with, Yuma glanced around his feet for a sturdy fir needle. “There’s no need to stand up for myself,” he said simply, pausing to scrape the needle between his teeth. He flicked the needle aside when he could no longer feel the stringy meat stuck in his molars. “Especially when the things they say are true.”

“I know you didn’t—”

He grabbed her by the hand and knelt on the rocky ground. “I’m not a good leader. I’m not inspiring. When I’m not so soft that I won’t let unconscious Barian generals be murdered in front of me, I become a murderer myself. I turn into a monster when I fight, because a monster is what the bastards in the Astral World want me to be—”

“Gods damn it, Yuma, stop—”

Yuma ignored her. “And those things they say about my relationship with Ryoga that you don’t want to tell me? One of the nicer ones is that we were pillow friends and that’s how I even became an officer in the first place, right?” He took her silence as affirmation and laughed bitterly. “Only a little right. But to my credit, I became an officer through my own merits well before we ever shared a bed.”

She wrenched her hand free and covered her face, sobbing so hard her body shook from head to foot. It was genuine grief that he had caused Kotori, again, and his chest tightened painfully. Yet they were words—harsh words—he could not take back now, even had he wanted to.

He stood, dragging his pack up with him, and mumbled another inadequate “I’m sorry” before leaving her kneeling on the rocky ground, alone. He needed time to himself, even for a few minutes, to think about the next plan of action he had to take with this makeshift regiment. They were probably walking straight into another massacre, because Yuma couldn’t imagine what Lord Vector had planned, what his forces were, what the security in and around the palace was, what hellpowers Vector might even have that Yuma was unaware of.

“A damn hopeless mission,” he muttered when he found gnarled tree to sit under, just far enough from camp where he couldn’t be seen. He rifled through his things once more for a pen and some paper, forgetting until he pulled out his sopping journal that nothing he owned was dry from the ceaseless rain and mud that had plagued them for miles.

He shoved the journal back in his bag and rested his forehead on the palms of his hands, his elbows propped up on his knees. Every inch of his body screamed in pain, but it somehow didn’t seem enough now. His bones would heal in time, but his soul would feel the pain for eternity.

“The mantle of leadership is a heavy burden,” a cold voice said from nearby. “I told you this many times.”

“ _You_ did no such thing,” Yuma said without looking up. “If you have nothing to do but berate me, kindly leave.”

Ryoga’s boots moved into Yuma’s limited view. “My words seem to have little impact on you.”

“That’s one more thing you don’t understand about humans,” Yuma replied. He looked up and held out his hands. “Go ahead, then. I may still have a few bones you haven’t broken yet. If you’re lucky, you might shatter a rib and puncture my lung this time.”

“I would have no greater pleasure,” Shark Drake said tonelessly, “but alas, the others do not wish you dead.”

“More of their bullshit mercy?”

Ryoga’s gauntleted hands twitched as though yearning to throw Yuma’s head into the tree again, but he didn’t move and neither did Yuma. “The others’ mercy is the only thing keeping either of you alive right now, so I would not be so ungrateful.”

“I would rather be dead than at your mercy.” Using the tree as support, Yuma stood and spat in Shark Drake’s direction.

He expected Shark Drake to react with violence but the god merely stood, lance in hand, and stared Yuma down with emotionless eyes. “I see your anger, Yuma Tsukumo. You do not use it well to cover up your pain.”

“I wonder what I could possibly be angry about?” Yuma’s hands shook. “Even if this suicide mission worked and we killed the Barian lords, what then? More lords would take their place. Would we have to kill them too? How long until this cycle ends, you bastards?”

“At some point, negotiation would be possible. It may take years, but the possibility exists to strip the Barian Empire of its authority and reduce it to nothing more than a horde of monsters in the desert.”

“If my future is going to be nothing but a cycle of murder, I want no future.”

“What future _is_ it that you want, Yuma Tsukumo?”

The question hurt like another blow to the stomach because, truthfully, Yuma didn’t know the answer.

“This.” Shark Drake gestured at Ryoga’s body. “This is what you want, is it not? This is the rage you feel, knowing in your heart that he chose to let me inside over you.”

The sound of Yuma’s blade reverberating off Ryoga’s lance filled the still mountain air. Shark Drake parried each frenzied strike, a twisted smile spreading on Ryoga’s face as they backed closer to the edge of a steep drop off. But Yuma swung his sword with both hands—a childish tactic—aiming at every vital part of the man’s body, being deflected at every turn. Tears of fury and pain filled his vision, making him miss his mark more often than he nearly made it. The whole time he was acutely aware that the rage that filled him in battle, the rage he had pretended for so long was some outside force controlling him, was completely under his control.

 _This is you_ , a voice in his head told him. _This is the real you._

He dropped to his knees, body heaving as he retched at Ryoga’s feet. Ryoga stood three steps from the edge of the cliff, staring down at Yuma with the same expressionless gaze as before, even as Yuma emptied his stomach from the guilt and fear controlling his body, from the physical pain that returned like a wave of fire throughout his body. And all the while, his hand clenched the hilt of his father’s sword as though it had fused to his skin.

“Stand.”

He gasped for air through his agonizing sobs, chest rising and caving in quick succession. He couldn’t muster the energy to look up at Ryoga any longer, let alone stand. So Ryoga reached down, grabbed Yuma by the short ponytail tying his hair back, and yanked him to his feet.

A garbled scream of protest escaped Yuma’s throat; some of his hair tore free of his skull. Ryoga stared into his face, still holding Yuma by the hair, head tilted in an almost curious manner.

“It seems I am not so inept at understanding humans as you believed.”

Yuma’s vision swam from the pain; as he reached up to grab Ryoga’s hand, he had to grab Ryoga by the front of his shirt instead as his knees gave out. To his surprise, Ryoga let go of Yuma’s hair, stepped forward into Yuma’s vomit, and caught him under the arms, hauling him back to his feet.

“I am curious, Yuma Tsukumo,” Shark Drake said in an eerily quiet voice, “as to why you chose to fall for Ryoga Kamishiro, of all other humans on this continent you could have had instead.”

“Maybe you don’t understand us as well as you thought you did,” Yuma whispered, squeezing his eyes shut and blinking them experimentally to clear his vision. “Humans don’t choose to fall for others. It happens, or it doesn’t. Believe me, I never would have chosen to fall in love with someone I knew from the start I could never have.”

“And yet you did have him.”

“I suppose that the Fate you had in store for the both of us gave us that opportunity.”

“Hm.” Shark Drake’s curious head tilt was back. Still he did not remove his arms from under Yuma’s. “What would you do to have him back, Yuma Tsukumo?”

It took Yuma a moment to realize what the god was proposing. “You… would give him his body back?”

“What would _you_ do to have him back?” Shark Drake repeated.

Yuma bit his quivering lip. “Anything.”

“You would take up your sword and do as asked?”

 _Don’t lose yourself_ , Ryoga reminded him _._

“Yes,” he whispered.

Shark Drake let go of him; Yuma barely caught himself from falling to his knees again, propping himself up by the blade of his sword. “Then I will make you a proposition. When I see the body of Emperor Vector lying dead on the ground, I will give Ryoga Kamishiro control of his body.”

“Permanently?”

“Permanently.”

“How do I know you will?”

Without looking away, Shark Drake took the tip of his lance and sliced into the palm of Ryoga’s hand. He held it out and Yuma cursed softly.

“A blood oath?”

“I could swear to the gods on my soul, but I doubt you would take it seriously,” Shark Drake replied, “just as I would not take such an oath seriously from you.” He nodded at Yuma’s sword.

Yuma swallowed with difficulty; his mouth and throat were dry as sackcloth. But he didn’t allow himself to flinch as he cut into his own hand with his father’s blade and reached for Ryoga’s hand. “I promise to do what is asked of me by the gods until the Astral Kingdom is no more in the hands of the Barians,” he whispered.

Shark Drake placed the palm of Ryoga’s hand over Yuma’s and gripped him by the wrist, nails digging in tightly. “And once I see Emperor Vector dead, I will give Ryoga Kamishiro control of his body… permanently.” He released his grip but Yuma tightened his.

“What will it take for you to leave his body?”

The twisted smile returned and Yuma couldn’t look at Ryoga’s face anymore. “All Seven must be dead before I will leave Ryoga Kamishiro’s body and this plane.”

Yuma almost let go before he understood Shark Drake’s wording properly. He reached out with his other hand, trapping Ryoga’s between them. “The Seven Emperors who currently sit at the head of the Barian Empire,” he amended. “Durbe and Vector and Ilya and… Alasco… and…” He faltered. The names of the other three eluded him and he cursed himself for not being attentive enough. “And the other three who at this moment call themselves Emperors of the Barian Empire.”

Shark Drake inclined Ryoga’s head a fraction of an inch. They released hands and Shark Drake walked past Yuma, scuffing his boots on the mud to wipe the vomit from them. “You should know,” the god said casually, “that Ryoga Kamishiro is experiencing tremendous emotional turmoil over your oath.”

 _I pray I did the right thing,_ Yuma thought, even as a new wave of pain coursed through his chest. He tried to ignore the small voice at the back of his mind that repeated Ryoga’s plea that Yuma do anything in his power to keep his soul whole. Ryoga would understand, in time, that Yuma hadn’t made this decision lightly. _I did this for you._

He needed to talk to Astral, he decided, _make_ Astral listen if he had to. Make amends, beg him on hands and knees even to give Yuma five minutes of his time. Astral’s calm advice had always been a source of comfort, even when Yuma made life difficult for him. Yuma followed Ryoga, fully intending to split from him the moment he reached camp and head straight for Astral’s shelter.

But when he reached the camp, the young scout he had sent ahead to see if the Barians were down the mountain was waiting for him, bouncing on the balls of his feet anxiously. He was no more than twelve years old and still had some of his baby fat, but he had energy to spare and was light and quick on his feet, a hunter from the western forests.

“Cap’n,” he called out the moment he saw Yuma, and he bounded away from the fire with a chunk of meat in hand. “Found some’n you might wanna see.”

“What is it? Barians?”

“No, Cap’n, a man, up off ‘a the trail.”

Yuma glanced to his left, where Ryoga gazed stony-faced at the child. “Who is he?”

“Don’t know, Cap’n. He won’t tell us his name. Won’t say nothing ‘cept he wants to talk to you, Cap’n.”

“Kill him,” Ryoga said indifferently, but Yuma waved his hand to dismiss Shark Drake’s order. The scout’s eyes flickered between them uncertainly.

“What did he say, exactly?”

The scout screwed up his eyes in thought. “He says ‘xactly, ‘I re-quest an aud… aud…ience with L’tent Yuma Tsukumo,’ and then didn’t say nothing else, Cap’n.” His recitation was awkward; the formality of the stranger’s request was clearly unfamiliar to him. “Ain’t got a weapon neither, Cap’n,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Ryoga shot Yuma a withering glare that needed no words to convey the god’s bitterness. The strange man waiting for them was probably a nobleman, or at least born into wealth, though very few noblemen would travel these mountains alone, much less during the early summer thaw where the trail was almost entirely knee-deep clay, rivers of mud, and swollen mountain streams. That the man would request to speak specifically with Yuma—even unaware that Yuma had taken the title of Captain-Commander—and not the onetime higher-ranked Captain Kamishiro was not lost on the god.

That the man had requested to speak to him, specifically, when no one but the dead Barians up the mountain knew they were there, was also not lost on either of them.

Yuma waved the scout on and followed.

The man waited only a short distance straight down the mountain, perhaps a mile and a quarter, but twice Yuma found his leg stuck in the clay and only unstuck himself by grabbing a low-hanging tree branch. As they trekked farther down the mountain, often down steep, rocky terrain, the vegetation changed from low shrubs and evergreens, best suited to the highest parts of the mountain’s cold climate, to old-growth maples and unquenchably thirsty cottonwoods, indicating a permanent water source was near. Ferns choked out the trail in several places, though from time to time, the white flowered snakeroot or the pink-tinged trillium stood out from the cluster of green.

The whole journey took perhaps half an hour. It was not an easy journey, or a comfortable one; though Kotori’s Healing had helped speed the recovery of Yuma’s fractured and broken ribs, and though the flight and fight up the mountain had filled his body with a rush of energy that helped him forget his pain, the soreness and bruising returned in full force with each jarring step down the mountain. And Ryoga was silent the whole trek, so Yuma was trapped in his own thoughts, trying in vain to convince himself that he could forgive himself for hurting Kotori again. _What must she think of me,_ he wondered, _knowing now that I have not only known another man, but that the man was Captain-Commander Ryoga Kamishiro, the last Dragoon?_ The blood oath he had made with Shark Drake made him feel worse; he was anxious, nauseated, terrified, and yet…

When the scout took them off the path about a quarter mile and gestured ahead to a level, new-growth grove of cottonwoods next to an overflowing stream, Yuma saw the man, dressed in dirty, thin rags—yet a strangely clean cloak—sitting on a rotted log, hands folded patiently on his lap. He approached cautiously; though the scout had assured him the man was unarmed, Yuma had his concerns.

“Good evening, Lieutenant,” the man said in a slightly hoarse baritone, rising to his feet on quivering legs. He pulled back his cowl to reveal short, limp silver hair. An azure gem sparkled from the intricately crafted silver wristlet attached to a bony wrist.

Yuma’s heart stopped.

The man looked up and Yuma found himself staring into the stormy, calculating grey eyes of Lord Durbe, Seventh Emperor of the Barian Empire.


	71. The Devil With The Sword

Surprisingly, Shark Drake did not immediately move to kill Lord Durbe on the spot. It instead stared down the lord with a bizarre combination of curiosity, resentment, disgust, and thoughtfulness, head tilted slightly to the side. Lord Durbe, for his part, ignored Ryoga, his eyes fixed on Yuma with an intensity that made Yuma shift uncomfortably. He did not know why a Barian lord would willingly bare himself to the enemy unless it was a trap; Durbe likely had a small army of Barian soldiers waiting for his signal to swarm the mountain and attack the battered rabble Yuma led. With Astral still weak from the previous battle, Yuma doubted they would be quite so successful in fending off another wave.

“Go get Lady Kotori and Prince Astral,” Yuma found himself saying to the scout, eyes never leaving Durbe’s face. “Quickly. When the others catch up, have them move into the clearing, but no one will leave the path. Am I understood?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the scout tilt his head quizzically but he scampered away with a hasty “yes, Cap’n.”

A trace of humorless amusement crossed Durbe’s face the moment the lad was out of earshot. “Ah, I see,” he said in a scratchy voice, as though he hadn’t used his vocal cords in days, “I was wrong to call for an audience with _Lieutenant_ Tsukumo. Congratulations on your promotion, Captain Tsukumo, and at such a young age.”

“What do you want?” Yuma spat. If this monster was here simply to stall for time, to deride him, then perhaps it was best to destroy this threat, to wipe one of the Seven from the face of the earth and send its demonic soul back to the Hell where it was born—

He found himself clutching the hilt of his father’s sword; with a shudder, he released it and held his hand in his other to calm his shaking. Durbe missed none of this, of course. His eyes flickered once more toward Yuma’s sword before he bent down and picked up one of the three books sitting on the log. The cover was leatherbound, the pages uneven and cracked, but Durbe held open the book—perhaps deliberately—so that, even from ten feet away, Yuma could see Ryoga’s sloppy scrawl printed on the pages. He choked out an involuntary sob; the last time Durbe had read from those pages, Yuma was forced to listen as Durbe recited in a voice void of any emotion the first time Yuma had taken a life—a human life.

“It’s easy,” Durbe began as casually as if he were discussing the day’s schedule, “to stand far back and issue commands to nameless, faceless peons, but it is harder by far to lead as an example to your men. I commend you for that, Captain. They have given you a name in Baria, you should know. The Devil with the Sword.”

Yuma reached involuntarily for his sword again and stopped himself barely in time. He clenched both hands to his chest and turned his head to look at Ryoga, whose face was eerily calm as he contemplated the lord in silence. Yuma wished he would speak; even the vitriolic tongue of the god inside Ryoga would be welcome respite from the lord’s emotionless taunts.

“I know what they call me.” Durbe ran a thin finger down a page of the journal. “Less savory titles than your own. Monster, demon, bastard… and though I have never bathed my hands in another’s blood, murderer.”

“Fitting nonetheless,” Yuma said without thinking, “as your words have decreed the deaths of hundreds of innocent people.”

“Truly.” Durbe stared down at the book in his hands. For the first time, Yuma saw the hollowness in the lord’s eyes, the heavy shadows and sunken cheeks and flaking skin. For the first time, he truly took note of Durbe’s disheveled, unwashed hair and filthy, scraggly, torn clothing that hung loosely from his frame. Even Durbe’s feet were bare, covered in scrapes and mud all the way up his calves. This Durbe, unlike the one he had last seen in thin silks and tired but determined eyes, was a walking corpse. “With my own hands, I have never taken a life. I, a weak coward, sent others to do it for me instead. People who respected me, cared for me… loved me.”

Ryoga snorted, none too softly, and Durbe’s gaze flickered toward him for the first time. “Loved you? Don’t ascribe human feelings to yourself, you demon.”

“That’s not true.” Yuma surprised himself with his words. “He… he loves General Mizael.”

At the mention of Mizael’s name, Durbe’s façade of calm indifference faltered. He dropped the book in the mud, wrapped his thin fingers around his soul gem, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. But Ryoga didn’t notice; his calm had also shattered.

“Barians can’t feel love!” Ryoga spat to the side. “Do you really believe this bullshit, Yuma Tsukumo?” He jabbed a finger in Durbe’s direction. “Do you really think that a Barian lord who lives through lies and manipulation and murder is capable of even base empathy?”

Durbe did not reply immediately; he seemed to be steeling himself. When he finally spoke, it was in an uncertain voice, a quiver, and Yuma knew he spoke the truth.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. Mizael… is dead.”

The words hung heavily in the silent air.

Yuma knew he should have been relieved, knowing that the Barian who haunted his nightmares more than almost any other was now dead. But all he felt was a calm acceptance, as though Mizael had been only one more Barian whose crimes Yuma knew only through stories and not through experience. “What happened to him?” Yuma asked quietly. “Who killed General Mizael?”

At this, Durbe leaned forward, clenching his soul gem with such force Yuma wondered if he might not bend the silver wristlet. And this time, there was more than a stirring of sympathy. Despite everything Durbe had done, everything he _was_ … he truly believed, just as Yuma did, that his sins were for the greater good. He truly believed he was doing the right thing.

“Your friend Kaito Tenjo killed him,” Durbe whispered, and Yuma looked away from the droplets falling from Durbe’s eyes.

“Kaito Tenjo?” Ryoga uncrossed his arms and turned to face Durbe. “ _Kaito Tenjo_?”

“He died in my arms.” Durbe held his hands out, palms up, and spoke in a voice so quiet it was as though he spoke only to himself. “He was in so much pain.” He closed his eyes, shook his head slowly. “Deeper than any sword could ever pierce.”

Shark Drake’s surprise over learning of Kaito Tenjo murdering a Barian general seemed to dissipate upon these words. “I’m sure you knew exactly what he felt.” Ryoga spat again.

“You fool,” Durbe breathed. “Surely you worked out for yourself, as did the other lords, that Mizael and I were more than lord and general. Why else would I be here, sitting on this rotted log in stinking rags?” He grabbed a handful of his clothing for emphasis. “We were soulbound. That alone would have merited my demotion.”

The word _soulbound_ was familiar to Yuma, at least a little, but the concept was not. “You were… lovers?”

“Lovers.” Durbe’s face twisted. “That word doesn’t even encompass a fraction of what we had. He was more to me than a warm body in my bed. Barians don’t take _lovers_. We bare our souls to one other, and only one, for life. Mizael was my literal soulmate, a concept you humans could never hope to understand. To many, he was vile, an aberration, something that should never have existed. But to me…” Durbe held his hands close to his chest, eyes closed as though remembering some great pleasure. “There was no soul on this earth or in Barian World as pure as Mizael’s.”

Ryoga spat again, this time in Durbe’s direction. “ _This_ is vile. I want to hear no more of your sick Barian fantasies.” He hefted his lance and Yuma stepped between him and Durbe, arms outstretched. “Yuma Tsukumo, gods damn you, out of my way.”

“We won’t kill him here,” Yuma said softly. “I don’t want to see more bloodshed on this mountain.”

The last vestiges of Ryoga’s self-restraint vanished. At this point, Yuma was not convinced that this was Shark Drake speaking. “That _thing_ murdered everyone in my village!” His voice rose to a fevered pitch as he grabbed Yuma’s collar with his free hand and shook him violently. Yuma whimpered involuntarily from the pain and for a frantic moment wondered if Shark Drake would throw him to the ground again. “That monster is responsible for Byron Arclight. That monster is responsible for what happened to our homeland. That monster is responsible for those scars on your back. That monster is a butcher. A murderer! I have dreamed of the day when I could feel the life leave its body, could hear its voice _beg_ me for mercy, could know that at least one of the fucking monsters who have ruined our lives was back in Hell where it belonged. Yuma Tsukumo, _stay out of my way._ ”

“I will not.” Yuma grabbed Ryoga’s right wrist, pressed hard with his thumb and forefinger on a pressure point. Ryoga’s grip on his lance weakened just enough for Yuma to reach out with his other hand, wrap it around the lance, and push it down and back like a lever. The sharp motion caught Ryoga off balance; he stumbled to the side and Yuma swept a foot under Ryoga’s legs, knocking him to the ground, before shoving his knee into Ryoga’s chest. The sharp motion shot agony into his hips and through his broken ribs, but he fought the natural impulse to flinch at the pain. “I want to know why and how he sought us out.”

“The _why_ is simple, Yuma Tsukumo!” Shark Drake pushed at Yuma, who pushed right back and pinned Ryoga’s arms to the ground. “It’s here to kill us, nothing more. Why are you defending it, when you made an oath to see it dead?”

The unspoken reminder of Yuma’s blood oath with the god resonated in the question. Durbe was one of the Seven who needed to die before Shark Drake would leave Ryoga’s body and sever itself from his soul, and just as Yuma had wondered how he would see to it that all Seven died, one had willingly wandered into his path—not just any of the Seven, but the one responsible for _everything,_ the one whose own hands carved into Yuma’s flesh, the one whose chillingly emotionless voice reminded Yuma of the horrors of war and the impurity of his own soul. Yuma was spared the trouble of trying to figure out—even to himself—why he didn’t want Ryoga to kill Durbe when Durbe spoke from behind them.

“I’m not here to kill you. I’m too much a coward to kill anyone on my own.”

“I didn’t ask for your gods-damned input!” Ryoga screamed, and he thrashed against Yuma’s hold on him. Yuma had to press his body weight into his arms to keep Ryoga’s arms pinned to the soft earth, and even then it was a struggle. He squeezed his eyes shut; the pain was almost unbearable now. “Killing you quickly would be a _mercy_ for what you’ve done!”

“It would,” Durbe agreed, and Ryoga’s thrashing calmed abruptly. “The remaining six Barian lords would also believe so.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ryoga spat, and even Yuma half-turned to the lord in curiosity.

A shadow crossed Durbe’s sunken face. “I have been sentenced to die, in a way that is as far from merciful as you could ever imagine. My body has been starved and left to rot, and my soul…” His mouth quivered as he clenched his gem again. “I was to be burned alive, separated from my soul gem until the end, when it would be cast upon the fires and liquefied even before the last breath escaped my lungs.” He stared at the ground and his face gave out, every ounce of his composure evaporating. All his expression lacked was tears. “My soul would die before my body. I would die, truly and completely, human.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what happens to the Barian soul when the body dies. But I know if Vector had his way, I would find no peace in death.”

“Why would Vector—” Yuma began.

“You don’t deserve peace in death,” Ryoga cut in harshly, and Yuma fell silent.

“I suppose I should be grateful you aren’t the judge of that,” Durbe replied, voice suddenly icy. “I know your hatred of me and my kind, Ryoga Kamishiro. It is why my request was to speak with Yuma Tsukumo and not you.” He ignored Ryoga’s mutinous expression and turned instead to Yuma. “I need… I would like… your help.”

The only sounds for nearly twenty seconds were the cries of the tanagers and the soft rustling of small rodents in the undergrowth. “My help,” Yuma repeated at last. “You, who orchestrated so much of the anguish I have suffered in my life, want my _help_.”

“Time is of the essence, Yuma Tsukumo.” Durbe picked up the mud-splattered journal he had cast aside and held it out. “By sundown, if you are still in these mountains, you will die.”

Yuma made no movement toward the journal. He was afraid if he did, Ryoga would seize the opportunity to kill Durbe on the spot. “That sounds like a threat.”

“A warning. Lord Koche is on his way here with at least two regiments of Barian soldiers, including several high-ranking officers. He will destroy you and whatever inadequate forces you have managed to build.”

Slowly, Yuma climbed off Ryoga and stood facing the lord. Ryoga, surprisingly, only lifted himself to a sitting position, though his lance was within reach. “How do you know this?”

“As I fled from Baria, I heard them talking about it. They are heading here because they are aware that Prince Astral has Summoned in these mountains, and he is accompanied by—” his eyes lingered on Yuma’s bloodstained clothes “—someone who is unusually gifted with the sword.”

“How did they know about me? There were no Barian survivors.”

Durbe’s brows pushed together in confusion. “Obviously there was at least one.”

“No,” Yuma said quietly, “there wasn’t.”

“…I see.” Durbe stared at the journal in his hands. Yuma tore his eyes away from it. He knew Durbe understood perfectly why Yuma was so certain there had been no Barian survivors. “Then you have a traitor in your midst.”

Yuma would rather believe that a Barian had escaped his sword, that one had survived Astral’s massacre, than that someone in their group had sold them out. But he couldn’t deny it out loud any more than he could deny it to himself. So he faced the small ex-lord, stared at the journal of his sins clenched in the pale, bony hands that had once carved into Yuma’s back, and bowed his head.

He couldn’t pray. There was no one left to pray to who would hear him, who would care. There would be no comfort in asking the gods for strength to make the right choice when he knew that what they expected of him was for him to pick up his sword and thrust it into Barian Emperor Durbe’s gut, to twist it, to relish the dying screams of the worst Barian World had to give.

And he couldn’t do it.

“Why would anyone who has suffered the way we have at your hands want to help you?” he whispered.

“It doesn’t know anything,” Ryoga hissed. “It’s grasping.”

Durbe remained silent for a moment, deep in thought. Finally, he sighed. “In some human religious myths, Barians were once humans who committed some great offense against the gods and were sent to Hell, where they were reborn as Barians. They would then retain their old appearance at the time they died when they took human form.” He set the journal down again. “I guess when they look at me in this form, they see a young man who committed the worst sin a human could commit, and not a Barian Emperor who has lived for fifty years.”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” Ryoga demanded.

“What would a human have to gain from siding with the Barians?” Durbe touched his soul gem, eyes closed. “His human body would have been weak. Limited. But as a Barian, it would have strength, incredible healing powers, resistance to most diseases and poisons, a long lifespan.” His laugh turned into a series of deep coughs. “What an idiot,” he rasped when the coughs subsided. “He never would have dreamed of doing it had he known he would spend half his life as a human living in poverty in the desert and the other half a slave to the Barian Empire.”

“This is absolutely the end of this conversation.” Ryoga shoved past Yuma, who was too engrossed in this chilling take on the concept of rebirth to resist. “You think you were a _slave_ to the Barian Empire? You _built_ the Barian Empire, you monster, _you_ , and made thousands of humans bow to you. Now it’s your turn. On your knees.” Ryoga jabbed a finger at the ground in front of him, where filthy sludge pooled from the creek overflow.

“Ryoga, that’s enough.”

“It will never be enough. On your knees, you fucking monster, before I _force_ you onto them.”

“There’s no need for—”

“Your concern is touching,” Durbe interrupted, not quite meeting Yuma’s gaze, “but unnecessary. I have no need for your pretend sympathies.” And with an expression devoid of emotion, the former Barian lord knelt slowly in the muck, one knee at a time, until his legs were barely visible.

Ryoga grabbed a handful of Durbe’s hair and yanked his head up. Durbe’s face tightened in pain but he said nothing and made no sound, which clearly dissatisfied Ryoga, who leaned his head close to Durbe’s ear.

“I won’t take your life here,” he breathed in a voice Yuma could barely make out, “no matter how justified I would be in doing so.”

Durbe, to his credit, held his composure well, despite being on his hands and knees in filthy clay water while the last Dragoon—the race Durbe himself had destroyed over a decade ago—held him by the scalp, completely at his mercy.

“Is your… justice… my humiliation?” Durbe’s voice was strained with pain, each word slow and deliberate. His eyes were unfocused, staring blankly at the trees above them. Yuma couldn’t see his hands, but he imagined they were clenching handfuls of mud.

“Your humiliation is never enough justice.” Ryoga shoved Durbe’s face toward the muck, but Durbe fought back for the first time, straining against Ryoga’s hand.

“Then let me offer you true justice.” Durbe breathed out the words in a rush, flinching at Ryoga’s hold on his hair. His arms shook from the effort of keeping himself aloft. “If you won’t… kill me here… let me take Vector’s life before I take my own.”

Ryoga shoved Durbe’s head down one last time before releasing his hold. He straightened up, mouth twisted as he stared down at the lord kneeling at his feet, covered in filth. “Disgraceful,” he muttered, shoving past Yuma.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Yuma said in an undertone.

“It was completely necessary,” Ryoga shot back, “and more sympathetic than this thing deserves.” He stormed away, kicking at rocks and branches until he was out of sight in the trees.

Durbe hadn’t moved from his hands and knees; with his head down, his matted, limp hair obstructing his face, he looked as though he were praying. His back and shoulders rose and fell with each deep breath he took.

_You’re too empathetic,_ Kotori had told him, and maybe she was right. He had no reason to see Durbe as anything but a murderer, a demon, but instead he felt pity for the exhausted, starved lord, and though he knew Durbe’s life had been nothing but lies and manipulation, the pain in his body language and face, the trembling hands and chin and hollow gaze told him that Durbe had told the truth about Mizael, and that Durbe, the lord who had been instrumental in the creation of the Barian Empire, truly was now an outcast of the very empire he had built.

He bent down and grabbed Durbe under the arm and hauled him out of the mud and to his feet with a loud squelching sound.

“I told you I don’t want your fake sympathies.” Durbe tried to pull free, but it wasn’t until he looked up and Yuma saw his face that Yuma let go.

“You really would have done anything for him, wouldn’t you.”

Durbe looked away and wiped at his face, perhaps forgetting his hand was covered in mud. Perhaps he just didn’t care. “No, I wouldn’t. At least, I didn’t. He gave and gave, and I took and took for thirty years and only at the end did I realize how much he gave me that I never repaid him.” He breathed heavily, staring down at his mud-caked arms. “My word is worth nothing to you, but what happened to your home was Vector’s plan.  Arclight… Tenjo… that’s how it was supposed to be. With the least amount of life lost.”

Yuma clenched his fists, burying his nails in the flesh of his palms. They both knew better. “But you had no qualms killing every man, woman, and child in the Dragoon Village.”

Durbe’s lips parted as though preparing a response, but he sighed instead and turned to the swollen creek, thrusting his arms into the icy waters.

Yuma never would have watched another man bathe himself but with Durbe it seemed necessary, to prove that Durbe was _different,_ that he wasn’t human, and that he didn’t experience the same embarrassment or self-awareness any other man would in such a situation. The lord was a prisoner—a willful prisoner, yes, but a prisoner nonetheless—and he wasn’t even human, yet Yuma watched with a grotesque fascination as Durbe peeled off his filthy shirt and splashed the frigid water over his body. His ribs protruded from his pale skin, unblemished save for the white scars on his forearms.

And Yuma was right; as Durbe removed his trousers and knelt in the creek, there was no modesty about it. He knew Yuma watched him, yet he exposed himself openly, didn’t try to cover himself, didn’t glance back or turn away, and when he had finished rinsing the filth from his skin and hair, he stepped as serenely onto the creek bed as he might have stepped into an audience chamber in full lordly regalia.  He didn’t seem to shiver, though the water had been cold and the light forest wind chilly.

It may look like a human, Yuma told himself, it may talk like one and have a false imitation of love, but it’s not human. It draws its life energy from Hell. It’s a devil pretending to be something it never was, and never will be.

_And I have to kill it._

The whole process had taken maybe five minutes, and by the time Durbe was dressing in the same filthy clothing he had earlier discarded, Ryoga had returned, but this time he was not alone.

Anna clapped her hand over Kotori’s mouth to muffle the scream that had slipped from her throat; Anna herself was staring with open-mouthed terror at Yuma. When Astral came into view, supported by Ryoga, he froze. His breathing quickened visibly as he rapidly mumbled something to himself.

“Don’t worry,” Yuma found himself saying. “It won’t hurt us.” He looked back at Durbe, whose face had tightened at the use of the word _it._ He ignored the lurch of guilt in his chest. _It isn’t human. It’s a demon. It has to die._ He chanced a peek at Ryoga, whose face was twisted into a small smile. Shark Drake’s approval made Yuma’s chest constrict tighter. “It’s going to help us take our kingdom back.”

_It isn’t human. It’s a demon. It has to die before we can break these bonds of fate._

* * *

 

Across the river, Heartland City burned.

Thomas smelled the smoke before he saw it, heard the faint commotion even two miles away. Scouting reports of the past two days confirmed it: the city had erupted into chaos, with bandits and looters clearing out warehouses on the city’s docks and setting fire to buildings the Barians had recaptured; citizens and Barians clashed on the streets, bodies of the oft-violent conflicts tossed carelessly into the icy Galaxy River; effigies of the Witch of Baria were burned in front of the palace. Even the Witch herself joined the fray on one occasion, though she was heavily guarded. A needless precaution. No one with half a mind would dare approach her as her fire dances incinerated homes, carts, horses, and humans alike. The Witch had made a point to incinerate the stadium where Heartland’s barbarous games took place. The angry merchants and bandits and thieves had made a point to incinerate everything else. Heartland’s palace alone stood in the midst of the chaos, untouched, and that was where the Witch stood, surveying the kingdom she must have believed would fall to her and her ilk as easily as the others.

Arclight had been turned into a puppet monarchy, Astral an occupied kingdom, and Tenjo silenced by sheer deficiency of numbers to the Barians who declared it their own. The Barians had prevented a great deal of destruction from befalling their new provinces… until they set their eyes on the riches of Heartland’s capitol city.

Money, Thomas thought grimly, was the only thing keeping the Barians from having successfully overtaken the continent with the barest amount of bloodshed.

He glanced at the sky. The sun was nearing the horizon to the west, beyond the burning city. His soldiers—no; he laughed at the thought—the commissioned pirates and bandits and cutthroats were scattered throughout the sparse coverage of the cottonwoods near the river, waiting on nightfall and his signal to swarm the coastline, subdue the Barian patrols, and secure passage to the other side of the river. If they were quick and efficient about it, they would attract no attention and make it to the shore of the city without engaging with Barian river patrols. If they weren’t… well, who better than river pirates to deal with fights on the river?

He cursed the gods for the clear sky and near-full moon that would haunt them this night. If a single Barian saw his face and survived… he would be putting his family and his kingdom in jeopardy, and his own neck straight in the hangman’s noose.

“Brother.” Mihael watched him closely, his hands strangely steady on the hilt of the broadsword he now leaned on.

“I hate this,” Thomas muttered, squinting with his good eye over their motley crew of bandits, dispersed into smaller groups throughout the edge of the forest line. His gaze lingered on Kaito Tenjo, who stood stiff as a board, arms crossed as he glared at the trees. Something about him unsettled Thomas; maybe it was his sudden bloodlust or secretive, askance demeanor that was so unlike his usual arrogant self that always tried to butt in where he wasn’t needed or wanted.

“It’s not desirable,” Mihael agreed, “but it’s necessary.” He followed his brother’s gaze. “He’s just lost his kingdom, and the Barians took his brother,” he added, correctly interpreting Thomas’s silence.

“What would Chris say if he saw this?” Thomas traced his scar with his thumb, an annoying habit he couldn’t rid himself of.

“He would remind us that we have a responsibility here,” Mihael chided him. “He put his family above his feelings for Kaito, and we in turn put our love for our kingdom above ourselves.” He gestured with the wrist baring his soul gem.

Thomas scowled, because Mihael was right.

A movement off in the trees near Kaito caught Thomas’s attention; it was the lumbering figure of Lord Heartland, trying very hard to be sneaky and accomplishing exactly the opposite.

“Where the hell has he been?” Thomas hissed, moving past Mihael toward the disgraced lord, but Kaito broke his stony stance first and turned to Heartland.

Thomas didn’t hear the question Kaito asked, but he suspected it might have been a variation of “where the hell have you been,” a question that seemed to insult Heartland greatly, as he drew himself up and crossed his arms. Thomas was now close enough to hear the response.

“It is none of _your_ business, you treacherous little insect.”

“He’s going to regret that,” Mihael muttered from behind Thomas, and Thomas couldn’t help but agree.

“You dare talk down to _me_?” Kaito’s expression was unchanging as if it were carved from a mountain. “You, a filthy, slimy cat burglar?”

“Be silent, you insignificant bastard—“ Heartland reached out to grab Kaito’s collar, but in one swift movement, Kaito had grabbed the lord’s arm, stepped around him, and pinned Heartland’s arm behind his back. His other hand dug into Heartland’s shoulder, eliciting a pained whine.

“I am neither a bastard nor insignificant,” Kaito breathed, jerking Heartland’s arm harder and drawing out a high-pitched whimper, “and I will not be silenced by the likes of you.”

“Lord Kaito,” Mihael said warningly, but at a cold glance from Kaito, Mihael held his tongue. Thomas met his brother’s questioning gaze with one of his own; far be it from Kaito’s nature to accept insults gracefully, he was rarely violent. Yet the threats he now whispered in Heartland’s ear—and they _were_ threats; Thomas recognized the fear in Heartland’s eyes—were real, though Thomas couldn’t make out most of them.

“If I find out that you have been selling us out to the Barians,” Kaito said calmly, unsheathing his sword, “I will find you”—he placed the tip against Heartland’s heaving chest—“and you will find Dragoon metal in your lungs. Am I clear?”

“Abundantly.” Heartland spat out the word like venom and Kaito shoved him into the tree he had been leaning against.

Thomas tore his eyes away from Kaito’s emotionless face and glanced eastward. The sky was dark, the stars shimmering above them. To the west, the last faint colors of the sunset had faded into black. Nearby, the distinctive call of a barred owl filled the air.

_Hoohoo hoo hooooo, hoohoo hoo hooooo—_

“Time to go,” he muttered, and Heartland cast one more disgusted look laced with fear at Kaito before hurrying off behind the scattered groups of bandits. Thomas stepped into the dark forest, masked from the bright moon by the tree canopies, though trickles of light filtered through in places. He stepped with caution, careful not to break twigs underfoot, all the while following the steady birdcall. About a quarter mile in, the wild girl dipped from the tree ahead of him, dangling by her knees.

“How many?” he asked.

“Sixty-three on the ground,” she said, “but another eight with arrows on the big boat and two in each of the five high perches.”

Eighty-one Barians waiting for them. Thomas sighed in frustration. “Weren’t there only supposed to be thirty?”

“There were thirty when the sun was up,” she agreed. “But then when the sun went away, more came. They sound like they’re waiting for someone.”

_Us._ Thomas ground his teeth. If this _was_ Heartland’s doing—

“The archers are on the towers and the ship, right?” Mihael said from behind him, and Thomas jumped slightly.

“Mm-hmm.” The girl swung herself back onto the tree branch.

“No archers on the ground?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Could be worse,” Mihael pointed out.

Thomas cast his brother a dirty look he knew he couldn’t see. “Are there any really small Barians out there? Maybe a blond one?”

“There are a few small ones,” the girl said, sounding puzzled, “but I can’t see their faces.”

“Damn it.” Thomas blew out a steady stream of air.

“Lord Ilya?” Mihael muttered. “You think she would be here?”

“If they got tipped off, yeah.” Maybe it would be satisfying to watch Kaito shove his weapon into Heartland’s chest after all. “Where’s the mage?”

“Should be getting into position.”

“The assassins?”

“Right here,” a deep voice growled. “Why are we stopped?”

“We think the Barians know we’re coming,” Mihael said.

“Fuck me.”

“The ones with the arrows are looking at the trees,” the girl piped up. “Can these bears see in the dark?”

“Not much better than humans,” came another voice directly behind Thomas, who jerked reflexively in surprise.

“Why aren’t you with the mage, Kaito?” Thomas hissed, holding a hand to his chest.

“There seemed to be a problem,” Kaito replied coolly, “so I came to investigate.”

“You were needed on the—”

“What did you mean, Barians can’t see better than humans in the dark?” Mihael interrupted.

“Cathy.” Kaito’s silhouette glanced up into the trees. “What color light are the Barians using?”

Mihael made a small _ah_ of understanding, but it wasn’t until Cathy replied with “red” that Thomas got what Kaito was suggesting. At Kaito’s urging, Mihael held up a hand and produced a small ball of red light, the same kind of light Thomas had seen the Barians use in the palace in lieu of a lantern.

“Red light is easier on the eyes in the dark,” Kaito explained even though Thomas was sure everyone understood perfectly what was going on now. “It’s more natural. Yellow light, like fires, are harsh and take time to adjust to.”

“This isn’t our first night mission,” Droite said testily from behind Gauche. “We know how light works.”

Thomas ignored the bickering. If the Barians were counting on natural light to give them the advantage…

“Change of plans,” he interrupted in the middle of Kaito’s retort. “If the Barians are waiting for us, let’s give them a little surprise.”

* * *

 

Takashi peered through the trees, cowl over his face. They were close enough to see the Barians; from this vantage, they could see two of the towers and the ferry sitting at the dock. It would do for ferrying the bandits across the river, where the city glowed red.

“Would you be able to hit the Barians on the ship from this range without damaging the ship itself?” Thomas whispered.

The mage bit his lip. “Unlikely. It would take a lot of concentrated energy to hit a target that far away and it’s unpredictable. I’ll take care of at most two of the towers, but you’re on your own if you want to clear the ship. It’s going to drain me, fast.”

He didn’t expect much more than that from the mage. Still, taking out some of the Barians in front of the ship would help, not to mention the secondary benefits of the lightning powers Takashi was about to unleash on them.

“Can you do it without damaging the dock?”

Takashi huffed. “I don’t know. Maybe. Like I said, it’s hard to aim this much raw energy. Now if you don’t mind, I—”

“One more thing,” Mihael interrupted. “Do you sense another mage?”

“A fire mage?” Thomas pitched in.

Takashi scowled but didn’t say anything. He reached out a hand and slowly traced it through the air in an arc before letting it fall to his side again. “No. Unless they’re masking it really, really well, I can’t sense anything.”

Mihael nodded his head at Thomas, who left the mage to prepare for the first strike. “Lord Ilya isn’t here, then. Even if she tried to mask it, her powers are too strong to hide completely.”

Thomas wasn’t sure if he was glad the witch wasn’t going to participate in this battle or disappointed. Maybe it was for the best; they might actually have a decent chance at pulling off this madness.

“Where’s Heartland?” he asked instead, settling next to his brother.

“The assassins are keeping an eye on him,” Mihael replied. “You think he’s going to turn on us?”

“First chance he gets, mark my words.” Thomas spat to the side. “Smarmy, self-serving bastard.”

_Hoohoo hoo hooooo—_

The first signal. Thomas sighed and placed his hand on his sword. “You ready for this?”

“I’m strangely excited about this,” Mihael replied, giving his brother an uncharacteristically mischievous smile that must have mirrored the one creeping up on Thomas’s face.

“Same.”

_Hoohoo hoo hooooo—_

Thomas covered his eyes.

_Hoohoo hoo hooooo—_

A blinding flash and deafening crack filled the air; the hairs on Thomas’s arms and neck stood up. From the riverbank, there were ear-splitting screams.

Thomas pulled his hand away from his face. “Time to go.”

They had only perhaps thirty seconds to clear the forest and swarm the Barians on the riverbank before the Barians regained their sense of place. At a dead sprint, it was more than enough time for a few of the bandit archers to disable the enemy archers on the ferry. The tower nearest the ferry was now a pile of burning wood; judging by the screams and the few flaming figures running for the river, Takashi had more than hit his mark.

Thomas stood back a ways, careful not to let his hood fall. He surveyed the carnage from the treeline; the bandits had effectively dispatched nearly half the Barians already. From the way the Barian archers in the towers aimed, they were still disoriented from being blinded. One aimed a little too close to Mihael, and Thomas held up a hand. The familiar feeling of linking with the Barian, much like if he had tied the Barian on one end of a rope and was dragging him along, filled his body. He moved his arm a foot to the left; his puppet followed suit, catching a fellow Barian in the neck with the arrow Thomas was sure was intended for his brother.

“And for good measure,” he muttered, pulling his hands down with a violent motion. The Barian thrust itself from the top of the tower, headfirst at the ground. It landed in a sickening heap on the hard earth below.

It was a short battle; Thomas saw maybe five or six bandits go down, compared to the dozens of confused Barians. The lightning had been a gamble that paid off with tremendous success; Thomas had been planning on putting the mage in the battle but he knew casualties would be higher on their end if he had. Bandits and pirates and cutthroats let out yells of triumph with each stomach they gutted, with each knife that found its way into a throat. Blood fell to the earth like crimson raindrops that the earth refused to drink in.

But what caught his eye most, when fewer than ten Barians remained on the riverbed and the bandits’ bloodlust was almost sated, was Kaito Tenjo.

Kaito was about thirty feet away, covered in blood, a wild laugh on his face as he disarmed a Barian by cutting off its fingers and kicked its body to the ground.

“Gods, Kaito, don’t—”

Mihael abandoned the cleanup of the remaining half-dozen and sprinted to join his brother, who he must have heard yelling at Kaito, who continued to implore Kaito to stop.

But Kaito didn’t listen. He sliced off the Barian’s remaining good hand and the Barian let out an anguished scream.

“I remember now,” Kaito said in an eerily calm voice. “Haruto is gone.”

“Kaito, what are you talking about—”

“I killed General Mizael.”

The Barian drew heavy, stilted breaths and held its stump of a hand to its chest, but Kaito grabbed the Barian by the hair and held his sword to its throat as calmly as if he had been in a practice fight. The manic grin had vanished from his face; he now stared down at the creature with a grey gaze so cold Thomas wouldn’t have been surprised if frost had formed around him.

“Kaito!” There was no way for Thomas to keep the panic out of his voice. “This isn’t—“

“Mizael is dead but in exchange, my brother is gone.” His voice carried the same chill as his eyes. Thomas shuddered involuntarily. “They took him from me. Haruto is dead because of the Barians _._ I will burn their city to ashes. They will fear my coming, because I am the Dragon sent to destroy them _all_.”

“ _Kaito_ —“

Thomas’s pleading fell on deaf ears; Kaito didn’t even acknowledge him. His gaze remained fixed on the Barian trembling under his sword. His expression didn’t change as he leaned down, blade tightening against the Barian’s throat.

And when he spoke, in a soft, expressionless voice, it chilled Thomas to the bone.

“ _Have you repented?_ ”

“Lord Kaito, please don’t,” Mihael whispered, but the Dragoon blade flashed red, and the Barian dropped to the ground like a sack of wheat, convulsing for a few seconds before lying perfectly still in a puddle of its own thick crimson blood pooled atop the sandy brown dirt.  

Thomas had witnessed the brutal deaths of eighty Barians in the past fifteen minutes, but none of it phased him. Nothing but this, this sheer brutality from a man who had never known battle, who wanted peace at the cost of his own soul.

Kaito was entirely relaxed, from his emotionless face to the casual way he wiped his blade on his pant leg, staining the light blue fabric a reddish purple. He sheathed his sword, flexed his fingers, and mock bowed as he gestured toward the now-abandoned ferry. “Are you coming, my lords?”

Thomas stepped back, heart railing against his ribs. “Absolutely not. Kaito, what the fuck is going—”

“You, Mihael?”

Mihael gripped Thomas’s upper arm and shook his head. “N-no, Lord Kaito. We will need to return home before our father suspects...” He gestured jerkily toward the bodies around them.

“Pity,” Kaito murmured, pointing at someone behind Thomas. When Thomas turned, he saw Gauche and Droite standing nearby, he with his mouth open slightly and she with her lips pressed tightly together. “When I reach Heartland, I will need a ship and a crew. The two of you will suffice.”

“Like hell,” Gauche growled. “We’re going to Heartland City and that’s where we’re staying.”

Kaito’s sword was back in his hand before Gauche finished the sentence, and his legs had carried him within striking distance of both assassins. Unfortunately, the striking distance also included Thomas and Mihael.

The sword rested against Mihael’s throat.

“Gods fucking damn it, Kaito,” Thomas breathed.

“I don’t think you understood me,” Kaito said softly. His voice quivered. “Haruto is gone. I am going to destroy the Barians in their own city. These Barians took your father. They took your gods-damned souls. They deserve more than what they’ll get.”

“Take your sword away from my brother’s throat.”

“I need a fucking crew for my ship.”

“Going to Baria would be suicide,” Droite said warily. “The Baria Crystal is a constant energy source. Their very palace is made from it.”

“ _I just need a fucking crew!_ ” Kaito all but screamed, hand shaking. Mihael whimpered; Thomas shot a glance to his right where blood trickled from a thin slice on Mihael’s neck.

“Gods damn you, Kaito!” Thomas pulled Mihael away from the sword and threw him to the ground; Kaito was taken by surprise long enough for Thomas to grab Kaito by the wrist. Gods, but was Kaito stronger than Thomas thought; he strained to keep Kaito’s sword at bay. “I’ll go, damn it, just stop this bullshit!”

Thomas saw a few nearby bandits surveying the scene with curiosity, a few more with mild concern. He _had_ to get Kaito calmed down again; they couldn’t see him as someone who let his guard down for a second or his tenuous control over them would crumble.

“I’ll go,” he repeated, quieter this time, “but just as far as Arclight. I don’t have the luxury of leaving my kingdom to go on some quest for vengeance against the Seven Goddamn Emperors themselves.”

“Brother…” Mihael’s voice was full of concern.

“It’s just for a couple of days.” Thomas slowly released his grasp on Kaito, who lowered his sword. Once satisfied that Kaito wasn’t going to gut him when he let his guard down, he bent over to help Mihael to his feet. “Get back to Chris, tell him what’s going on, and if Father asks where I am, think of something.”

Mihael bit his lip but he nodded.

“We’ll come too,” Droite said, voice dripping in resignation.

“We grew kind of fond of the little asshole,” Gauche added.

Thomas gestured to Kaito. “Is this to your satisfaction?”

Kaito glanced over the three of them, then at Mihael, whose hand covered the thin line of blood on his neck. “It’ll do.” He sheathed his blade and gave them another mock bow. “I will see you at the ferry, then.”

“Fuck me,” Gauche said again once Kaito was out of earshot. “Fuck me, fuck me…”

“Are you cursing or asking for something?” Droite asked dryly, arms crossed as she stared at the Barian corpse on the ground. Thomas avoided looking at it, though he found most of the dead bodies on the riverbed didn’t bother him.

“Maybe both at this point,” Gauche growled.

“Gods, I don’t want to hear this.” Thomas scrunched up his face. “Where’s Heartland? I thought you were keeping an eye on him.”

“We’ve got a couple of friends who have been… stiffed by Heartland in the past. They’re watching him.”

“Not planning on killing him, I hope.” Though, Thomas reflected, maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Gauche hesitated a moment too long. “Probably not.”

Thomas sighed and tugged on his cowl to make sure it covered his hair and most of his face. “Time to go.”

_Where to, who the hell knows._


	72. Misguided Motives

The near-constant fidgeting, soft sighs, and occasionally bouncing leg was all Akari needed to know that Chris was still wide awake. Each movement he made shook the bed enough to keep Akari from sleep—even if she hadn’t been too anxious to sleep in the first place—to the point where she found herself wondering how Kaito Tenjo had ever gotten sleep sharing a bed with Christopher Arclight.

Not that she wanted to be there. She was perfectly content having her own bed and her own room, and so was he—if it hadn’t been for Alasco.

She had seen him angry, had been on the receiving ends of his threats and physical abuse, but she had never quite seen his temper flare the way it had earlier that evening when Akari was stuck having dinner in the dining hall with him. Much of his anger had been directed toward the tall, stoic lord—Pherka—who had come to deliver what was clearly unwelcome news, and though Pherka had held her ground reasonably well at first, she cracked and started screaming back at him. About what, it was difficult to tell; someone had “escaped,” or maybe been “set free,” it might have been Ilya’s fault, or Polara’s, or even Vector’s (depending on whose voice drowned out the other’s at the time), but Akari didn’t know who they were talking about, or where it was, or why Alasco and Pherka were so worked up about it, only that it was a _big deal_ and the person who had escaped had been a high-priority prisoner. Alasco had seized dinnerware and smashed it against the wall, alternating seemingly without realizing it between screaming the Barian language and the common human one, and Akari thought he would single-handedly destroy every plate, bowl, and wineglass in the palace by the time Pherka grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him into an arm lock.

 _I think it’s time to go to Baria,_ she had warned in an undertone, and he wrenched himself free before opening a portal without another word. Pherka glanced at the shattered glass all over the dining hall floor and back at Akari without a trace of emotion on her face before announcing in the same monotone that she would send someone on Alasco’s behalf to replace the dinnerware. Then she, too, was gone.

Chris, upon finding Akari shaken over the whole situation, insisted that she not be alone for a few days, so she found herself curled up under a blanket, as far from her husband on the bed as she could be without making herself uncomfortable, as wide awake as he obviously was.

“Chris?”

“Yeah.”

She rolled over to face him, wrapping the blanket tightly around herself. He was on his back, staring at the ceiling, blanket pulled up to his waist. “Why are the Barians fighting each other?”

“Don’t know. Alasco isn’t here. He’s probably back in Baria, dealing with… whatever problem they’re having.”

“Take a guess.”

“If I had to?” In the faint moonlight from the window, Akari could see him frowning. “Durbe.”

Alasco’s giddiness the week before over something that was about to happen to a “traitor,” Ilya’s vague hint that Durbe wouldn’t be a lord for much longer, the intense rage Alasco now had toward the “escaped prisoner,” the fact that Durbe had a terrible relationship with at least Alasco… it all made sense. “You think he committed treason like…” Her mouth twisted; even saying Alasco’s name out loud nauseated her. “Like _he_ suggested?”

“Well, he and Mizael weren’t exactly popular with the other lords, from what I could gather. Durbe did a lot of things behind their backs.”

Like stripping the Arclight brothers of their souls, Akari thought. Certainly the others wouldn’t have sanctioned _that_. “Wonder why Mizael died and if that had anything to do with it.”

Chris shrugged and let out a weary sigh. “Don’t know,” he said again. “I knew Durbe best out of all the lords, since he was in charge at Arclight for most of the past several months. He had his two other generals, you know, Alit and Gilag.”

It was hard to forget those two, as they had dragged her to the dungeons to see her brother for what she had thought would be the last time. As things turned out, it might have been, regardless. “They’re buried in the gardens.”

“Yeah.” He brushed his hair from his face. “No idea how they died. It shook Durbe. He took to wandering around the halls at night, talking to himself. Thomas heard him arguing with thin air one night, said it was bizarre. Looked like he was coming from Mizael’s quarters.”

“You never mentioned any of this to me.”

“Didn’t think it mattered at the time. I assumed Durbe was cracking under the pressure of bending my father to his will and figuring out a way to usurp Tenjo and Heartland.”

“He had Mizael buried in the gardens, too. Why here, why not Baria?”

“No idea.” Chris frowned again. “I don’t think Mizael liked it at Baria. Durbe either, for that matter. Spent a lot of time here and only went back for meetings.”

“If he hated the others so much,” Akari mused, “and they hated him, then… why did they make him a lord? Why did he accept?”

“The second question is easy. He wanted power, same as the others. As to the first… your guess is as good as mine.”

They sat in silence as Akari tried to process this. The conversation had yielded more questions than answers. She knew less about the Barians than she thought she did, it seemed; she knew nothing of their true motives, nothing of their relationships with each other, nothing about how they had come to power to begin with. She suspected from the deep frown lines on her husband’s face that he was having a similar realization.  

If Durbe was truly the lord who had escaped from Baria, there was no way he could have done so alone. Something else had happened; perhaps one of the other lords aided him, or maybe a higher ranking military figure who had access to his cell. But then, if this were the case, why would someone who hated Durbe go to such lengths and risk their own career and life to help him? Were they trying to backstab another lord, or undermine someone’s authority, or did they have something else to gain from Durbe’s freedom?

A quiet, urgent knock at the door interrupted the silence. Chris slid from the bed and picked up his sword from next to the bedside table, moving as silently as possible through the room. Another knock; still quiet, yet more urgent. Chris held the sword at chest-height, elbow cocked, unbolted the door, and wrenched it open.

Mihael glanced at the sword, aimed at his neck, without a trace of surprise. “Trouble,” he whispered.

Chris lowered his sword and ushered his brother into the room; after a quick glance up and down the hallway, he slipped the door closed again and re-bolted it. “What is it?”

He swept past Mihael, who stood near the door with one hand to his neck. Akari fumbled in the semi-darkness for a flint to light the candle on the bed table.

“What happened? Did they see you?”

“No… I don’t think so…”

The flint in Akari’s shaking hands finally caught the candle aflame, flooding the room with light. She flinched against the brightness and went to Chris’s side, staring down at Mihael, who had perched on the edge of the bed. She sucked in a breath, taking in the clothes spotted with blood and Mihael’s clammy face.

“Is this yours?” she whispered, tugging at a sleeve where blood had spread through the satin fabric.

“No… it’s Barian…”

Akari grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away from his neck. A thin red line of blood dried there. “This isn’t.”

Chris cursed under his breath and knelt next to his shaking brother. “Mihael, you said there was trouble. Was the mission—“

“A success.” Mihael chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “Mostly. Some setbacks.”

“And this?” Akari drew a finger along her own throat to indicate Mihael’s own injury.

He clasped his hand over his neck again. “It… was…”

The word he whispered next was so quiet Akari couldn’t make it out, but whatever it was, it hit Chris like a hammer to the face. He slumped against the bed, mouth slightly open.

“Chris?” Akari ventured, but he ignored her.

“Are you serious?” Chris croaked, as though Mihael was capable of being anything _but_ serious for as long as Akari had known him. Mihael nodded. Chris closed his eyes. “Where is Thomas?”

“With him,” Mihael whispered.

Chris let out a string of curses as he stood, tugging at the strands of hair draped over his shoulder. Akari, confused and tired of being left out of the conversation, grabbed Chris by the elbow and made him turn to face her.

“With who?” she said, putting as much bite behind the question as she could muster. She dug her fingers into his arm for emphasis.

He continued tugging at his hair with his free hand and avoided Akari’s gaze. He mouthed something a few times before finally managing to spit out the name. “Kaito.”

She let go.

Of course; it _would_ be Kaito Tenjo, the man responsible for her being here in the first place. If he and Christopher Arclight had been able to keep their wits, morals, and clothes about them, she wouldn’t be here, she would be—

 _Probably dead,_ a quiet voice reminded her. “What was Kaito doing there?” she said, if only to ignore the sensible part of her mind.

Mihael looked up at her; Chris narrowed his eyes. “He didn’t really say.” Mihael frowned at her—well, not really _at_ her, more in her general direction—as though the question was one that should have been obvious but he’d never thought to consider it himself. “We found him on the ground in the forest. He… wasn’t making much sense, babbling about General Mizael being dead because of him…” He trailed off, now watching his brother, who crossed his arms against his chest. Something of Chris’s expression must have meant something to Mihael, because his eyes widened. “Oh gods, you don’t think—“

“Kaito might _actually_ have killed General Mizael?” Akari blurted out.

Chris moved to the window and leaned his head on the glass, staring into the dark gardens. He knew Kaito better than anyone; even the accusation that Kaito may have become a murderer must have weighed on him, yet he scarcely seemed surprised or even defensive.

“Where is he going?” he asked his reflection.

Mihael cast Akari a questioning look and at her nod, sighed. “Baria,” he said in an almost inaudible voice; Akari had to move closer to hear. “He seemed convinced that… his brother was dead, that he was—”

Chris spun around, eyes flashing and both hands balled up. “ _What_?”

“He… his brother—”

“I heard you,” Chris interrupted, and Mihael fell silent. “Gods, _gods_ , how could…”

He paced the room in silence, long strides clearing the length in six steps before turning around and doing it over again. He resumed the distracted tugging of his hair as he went, mouthing words Akari couldn’t make out.

Akari watched him walk eight lengths of the room before sitting next to Mihael, who was swaying back and forth with hands rubbing together as he watched his brother brood. His face was wet, but he didn’t bother to wipe it. He reminded her of Yuma, in a way, at least the last time she had seen him; the younger brother, tormented by his sins but doing his best to stay strong for his family and loved ones. She held her brother then, wiped his tears, stroked his hair, lied that everything was going to be fine. He, in return, held her, body quaking, crying from the pain both physical and in his soul.

Akari hadn’t been there for Yuma when he needed her the most. She had rejected him for a bitter, selfish reason and now there was a chance she would never see him alive again. But she could be there for her new brothers, the ones she never wanted but were given regardless, and be the sister they never had.

She moved closer to Mihael and leaned over, wiping the tears from his face with the back of her fingers, the way she did with Yuma when he was a child. Mihael wasn’t a child; he was a grown man, a little older than Yuma. But he looked at her through waterlogged green eyes and leaned on her shoulder, letting her stroke his hair and wipe his tears. When he reached around her to hug her waist, she wrapped her arm around his shoulder. 

She looked up to find Chris staring at them, an unreadable look on his face.

“He was like a brother,” Chris said in a quiet voice.

“And he _is_ your brother, Christopher Arclight,” she replied, rubbing Mihael’s back. “Who is more important to you, your family or your ex-lover?”

The tenseness in his shoulders evaporated; he fell to his knees next to his wife and brother sitting on the bed, enveloping them in a tight embrace.

“He sold his soul to protect Haruto,” Chris whispered into Akari’s hair. “I sold my soul to protect my brothers. If I lost either of them, I would want revenge.”

“He said he wanted to burn the city.” Mihael hiccupped. “He said something about a dragon.”

Chris’s iron grip on her back became painful. Clearly this dragon, whatever it was, meant something to Chris.

“Then I have to stop him before he hurts Thomas, or himself.”

“How?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

As far as Akari understood it, the only way to stop Kaito Tenjo was to injure him… or kill him. She doubted Chris trying to have a heart-to-heart with him would be effective. Chris knew that. But if it came down to killing the man he loved and protecting his family, Akari didn’t know what he would choose to do, and that terrified her.

He stood, and Mihael joined him, tugging at the ruffles on his sleeve. “Mihael, what was the excuse you and Thomas gave to Father for where you were going?”

“The western mountains, to oversee negotiation of a new land pass between our kingdom and Astral Kingdom in one of the villages on the boundary.”

“Good. Thomas stayed behind for a few days and sent you home. Negotiations weren’t too successful given the current climate, as most trade in the region has been halted thanks to what’s going on in Heartland.”

“Too many river pirates, not enough goods to filch.”

“You sustained minor injuries.”

“Botched assassination attempt. Thomas is dealing with the perpetrators.”

“From?”

“Heartland. Believed that we were responsible for selling out Heartland City to the Barians.”

Chris nodded and clapped Mihael on the shoulder. “How long will it be before Thomas passes through Arclight?”

Mihael walked toward the door, pulling off his bloodstained vest as he went. “Two, maybe three days if the wind is uncooperative.” He paused in the process of pulling the door handle. “I don’t think Kaito is planning on taking him all the way to Baria, is he?”

“He won’t,” Chris assured him, maybe with too much confidence for Akari’s taste. “Get yourself cleaned up and rest. We’ll join you for breakfast.”

“Good night, Brother.”

When Chris closed the door behind Mihael, he clenched his fist, slamming it with minimal force on the table next to him. The unlit candle holder rattled. “Gods damn it, Kaito.”

“You’ve gotten better at lying.” Akari held her arms close to her body. It wasn’t cold in the room, but the hairs on her arms stood up anyway.

“I don’t have a choice.” He picked up the unlit candle and carried it to the flame of the single candle Akari had lit earlier. The dancing flame cast strange shadows on his tired face. “Father can’t know what we’ve really been doing behind his back. He’d have all of us killed.” He carried the candle to the desk by the window and rummaged around for some paper and a pen.

“I wasn’t talking about your cover-up scheme, Christopher Arclight.”

He glanced back at her, pen in hand. “I haven’t lied to you, Akari Tsukumo.”

She stood, arms still crossed, and joined him at the window. “Not to me, Chris. You won’t lie to me because you need me on your side. This was a marriage of convenience to get you out of a situation _you_ got yourself into, but I’m still your tie to my brother, Prince Astral’s bodyguard, and by extension the powers Prince Astral has to help your kingdom.”

Chris bent over a piece of paper and started scribbling something on it. “Are you accusing me of using you?”

“You _are_ using me, you ass.” Akari turned away. “And you’re lying to your brothers.”

Chris laughed incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“ _Don’t worry, Mihael, Kaito isn’t taking Thomas all the way to Baria_ ,” Akari snapped back in a mock deep voice. “And don’t say that’s not a lie, Christopher. A lie by omission is still a lie.”

“A nice little saying,” Chris said with uncharacteristic sarcasm. “One of your father’s words of wisdom?”

“Leave him out of this, Christopher.”

“He abandoned his family, which is the opposite of what I am doing here.”

“Oh, is it _really_? As I see it, you’re leaving your family here while you go chase after a man on a suicide mission, you—you absolute useless cabbage.” At Chris’s clenched jaw, she knew she was right. “Mihael may see you as the responsible, loving older brother but I’m not stupid, Chris. As for my father _abandoning_ his family?” She balled up her fists; her hands shook. “ _He_ left his family to chase a friend too, into Barian territory, and look what happened to him, Chris! He wound up dead!” Her voice rose; someone would hear her, someone would probably get woken up, but at the moment she didn’t particularly care. “Not only is he dead, Chris, he’s dead at the hands of the _same fucking monster I now have to live under the same roof with!_ Every _gods-damned night_ I lie awake wondering if he’s going to kill me tomorrow, every _gods-damned night_ when I finally drift off to sleep, he’s there, _mocking_ me, every _gods-damned day I have to see him and I’m fucking terrified of him!_ ”

By the end, she was screaming, and she wasn’t sure as she stood there, chest heaving, sobbing into the near-silence if anything she had screamed was even coherent. But it was important for Chris to understand what she was now struggling to verbalize.

He didn’t speak, didn’t move. She sniffed, wiped her sleeve across her face, and said in a much quieter, though still trembling, voice, “I can’t be there to protect my brother. I know the past two years have been hell for him and I haven’t been there for any of it.”

Chris reached out, and after hesitating placed a hand on her shoulder. “He has people who love him looking out for him, Akari.”

“I guess.” She sniffed again and went to sit on the bed again. He joined her this time. “The captain-commander… Ryoga, wasn’t it?”

“Ryoga Kamishiro,” Chris affirmed.

“Yeah… is he a good man?”

Chris was quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. “He’s committed to his duties.”

“Is he committed to Yuma?”

“I…” Confusion gave way to a reluctant understanding. He became very interested in his fingernails. “I don’t know him well enough to say. I understand they were friends.”

“When Yuma was here, in that cell…” It was Akari’s turn to look away; she played with a few frayed strands of her nightgown. “When people are about to die, who…” She sighed. “If you were sentenced to hang, who would you want to see more than anyone, outside your family?”

He shook his head. “Akari—”

“He said ‘I wish I could have seen Ryoga again.’ Those were some of the last words I heard him say.”

“Ryoga Kamishiro is also a Dragoon, an angry man, and very much the type to seek revenge against the Barians until it kills him.” There was a finality in his voice that told her to cut this conversation short. She ignored this.

“If he was such an angry man, why would Yuma want him to be the last person he saw?”

“I don’t know.” Chris ran a hand across his face. He wouldn’t look at her, and she suspected he was withholding the truth again. “Just… I’m sure they’re watching over him. The Healer, Prince Astral, the captain.”

They sat in silence again, neither moving, until the aching exhaustion numbing every part of her body became too much.

“I’m going to sleep now.”

“Akari—”

“I’m not going to change your mind.” She blew out the candles and felt her way around the bed. “Just consider thinking about your family before you run off this time.”

He sat on the foot of the bed while she pulled back the sheets and curled up. Separate sheets from his, of course, because neither felt quite comfortable enough to share.

She was just getting comfortably drowsy when he whispered her name. She grunted in response.

“You’re getting better with your form.”

“…eh?”

“With the sword.”

“…mm.”

“Would you like to practice more tomorrow?”

She grunted again.

The bed shifted and she didn’t have to move to know he was climbing in. “Good night, Akari.”

* * *

 

Durbe was silent most of the trek, head down and frail hands clenching the folds of his cloak close to his body. Many of the bandits watched him suspiciously, and Yuma couldn’t blame them. He was still not certain that Durbe _wasn’t_ manipulating him—the lord knew, after all, the weakness of Yuma’s heart—and he wasn’t entirely convinced there _wasn’t_ an entire regiment of Barians waiting for them to leave the shelter of the mountain forest to slaughter them. To Yuma’s motley crew, Durbe was Dumon, a low-ranking merchant refugee from Heartland. Durbe played his role well, recounting with unsurprising accuracy the events in the city that caused him to flee: Lord Ilya had decreed that the entire merchant’s council be executed, and Dumon, fearing other merchants were next, fled the city in the chaos. To her credit, Anna verified his story with remarkable detail, identifying him as someone she had known for a few months when last she was in the city. Her face twisted as she told the lie, leading many of the bandits to believe she disliked and distrusted him, and the feeling rubbed off on them.

Yuma passed off Dumon’s knowledge of Yuma Tsukumo being in those mountains at that time as simple deduction; there were rumors that Prince Astral was still alive, more rumors out of Heartland that Prince Astral had been on that particular mountain weeks ago—not quite true, as the mountain they had fled up all those weeks ago had been ten miles northeast—and when the last summon had taken place earlier in the day, Dumon had made an assumption that turned out to be correct: Prince Astral was indeed in the mountains, and by extension, so was the traitor who had escaped the Astral Palace with him.

It was a clever, believable lie that came as easily to Durbe as breathing.

Going down the mountain was the easiest part of the entire journey and took only the remainder of the daylight hours. Nothing bothered them there: no bears, no mountain lions, and most importantly, no Barians. Still Durbe glanced back several times, with spindly hands clutching his cloak to his chest and stony grey eyes darting through the thickening vegetation as though waiting for Barians to swarm from above. If what he said about being a traitor to the Barian Empire was true, he had as much reason as the rest of them to be anxious. Not that Shark Drake believed a word of Durbe’s tale. This time, Yuma could understand the god’s paranoia.

Cautious or not, Yuma was still curious.

“You said you were soulbound,” Yuma said quietly as they entered the foothills to the northeast. They were getting close to the Revise River. Eventually they would have to cross it, whether or not there were legions of Barians waiting for them there. At that point, he would truly be able to see whether trusting this Barian’s word was one more foolish decision on his part. “What does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Durbe replied. He gripped the gem around his bony wrist and glanced around again. No one was nearby, not even Shark Drake, but Durbe bit his lip and fidgeted with the gem.

Yuma waited a moment for some elaboration, but none came. “It sounds like you fused your souls together.”

“That would be one way of looking at it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What humans don’t understand would fill a library, I imagine.”

Yuma ignored the jape. “How is something like that possible? You said you felt his soul. How do you feel a soul?”

The silence this time was different; Durbe rubbed his gem, a contemplative look on his face, but Yuma knew somehow that Durbe was not going to ignore his question this time. The lord glanced around again, then back up the mountain before replying. “The Barian soul is not some abstract thing,” he said finally, voice low. Yuma barely heard it and had to step closer to hear. “Humans see a soul as something that exists upon death, and only then. It’s the human’s imprint awaiting judgement; it’s the human soul that accepts damnation or salvation on behalf of the once-living human.”

“Some humans can project their spirits into Astral World once they reach a deep meditation,” Yuma pointed out.

Durbe shrugged dismissively. “Very few humans achieve such a thing. The only humans capable of projecting their spirits into Astral World are those with unnaturally strong ties to it. People like Prince Astral, who is a vessel of the gods on the earth, or Ryoga and Rio Kamishiro, the last of the gods’ holy warriors.” He frowned pensively as Yuma ground his teeth together. “Where _is_ Rio Kamishiro?”

This sudden realization that he had been traveling with them for hours and had only just noticed the absence of one of the two remaining Dragoons was galling. Yuma told him so; a look of comprehension settled over Durbe’s face. But no, Yuma realized, it wasn’t just an understanding; the way Durbe’s eyebrows set together, the disappointment, or maybe pity, in his eyes would have made Yuma think he was saddened to hear the reason for Rio’s absence if he didn’t know that Durbe felt no sadness for it.

“Battle?” Durbe suggested, but at Yuma’s tight-lipped expression, he nodded. “Of course… battle would not kill a Dragoon like Rio Kamishiro.”

“Don’t pretend to be sad like you knew Rio,” Yuma said through clenched teeth. “You don’t care what happened to her. One less Dragoon on the earth, isn’t that right? Your ten-year quest to kill every Dragoon is almost over.”

“A fact you’ve reminded me of six times this afternoon.”

“It doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“I am not so heartless as you believe.”

“I doubt that.”

Durbe’s young face was lined with exhaustion. “I don’t relish the thought of killing, the way the others do. And unlike you humans, I don’t have a belief system telling me that murder is wrong, I just know it is. Every life taken at my command has been part of a greater purpose.”

Yuma laughed. “A greater purpose? Tell that to Ryoga, who watched his mother and friends murdered in front of him at your command. Tell that to Astral, who no longer has parents, at your command. Tell that to the Arclights, who lost a father at your command—what greater purpose could possibly justify _anything_ you’ve done?”

“Everything I have ever done, I have done to achieve peace,” Durbe said icily.

“Peace,” Yuma repeated. “ _Peace._ Yes, because murder and genocide are the stepping stones to _peace.”_

“It was the only way for someone like me to attain any level of authority in the Barian Kingdom.” He didn’t sound convinced by his own words, and Yuma certainly wasn’t. “I had to bury my soul in Hell to climb to the top. And it took twenty years to do it.”

“It’s not a greater purpose if you’re doing it for power,” Yuma spat. “I don’t _care_ if you suffered to get where you are, because it is _nothing_ compared to the suffering you’ve inflicted on others.”

“You couldn’t imagine what I’ve suffered in my life.”

Yuma stopped walking and wheeled on him, voice rising. “ _I_ couldn’t imagine? You know _exactly_ what I’ve suffered. And then, just because you _could_ , you made me suffer it again. You don’t get to take the moral highroad, you—”

Durbe grabbed him by the wrist. Yuma clenched his fist. “The lords at Baria are the cause of so much of the suffering of the Barian people.”

“And you’re one of them.”

“Was,” Durbe corrected before releasing Yuma’s wrist. Yuma’s mouth thinned. “I was. Humans don’t know what the life of the average Barian was like before I became a lord. Miners died by the dozens every day, digging up Crystal that only the elites in the capitol benefitted from. Barians were conscripted into the mines for petty charges, or no charges at all. The longest any Barian ever survived in the mines was six years. Most were lucky to last two. All across the desert, small communities starved, deprived of the Crystal. Close to the Palace, there were riots almost daily.”

“And you changed all that,” Yuma said bitterly. He’d never heard of any of this; somehow none of this news ever made its way to the Astral Kingdom. By design, probably, of the Seven Lords who didn’t want the humans to know just how terrible their regime was.

“I did.” Durbe sighed and walked past Yuma, stepping over a patch of thorny plants. “Once I became lord, I worked with the miners. We negotiated a rotation system. One month in the mines, three months in the fields. They would receive adequate compensation in the form of the Crystal. They listened to me, you see, because I was one of them.”

“You worked in the mines?”

“Not the mines, no. I was born into poverty in the desert.” Durbe put his hand inside his cloak again. “We had nothing. No crystal, no Healers. Many of us had never been in our true forms before because there was no energy to sustain us. There was a single water source, a spring that fed the village crops. You see, we starved as Barians, so we lived as humans.”

There was only one place in the Sargasso Waste that Yuma knew. So he envisioned a child version of this once proud lord, starving in the stone-cobbled square of a village surrounded by high walls built all the way into the foothills half a mile from the square. He envisioned this child Durbe planting squash and beans, grinding corn with a pestle and mortar, impaling scorpions and snakes with sharp sticks, being careful not to waste a single drop of precious water.

“I had no love for the lords at Baria,” he went on. “The Emperors were a nameless seven, faceless, heartless. The people in the city, in their fine silks and luxuries, knew nothing of life in the Waste, and not just in my village, but all over the desert. We had been born into desolation and had to make the most of it. There was no way out for us. We were born in the Waste, we lived in the Waste, we died in the Waste. That was our Fate.”

“You escaped,” Yuma said uncertainly.

“No.” There was a deep bitterness in Durbe’s voice. “I survived.”

“I don’t understand.”

Durbe glanced up and stared at Ryoga’s distant figure. “No, you wouldn’t.” He nodded in Ryoga’s direction. “He would, I imagine. What it’s like to be the only survivor when your home is destroyed and everything you’ve ever known gone in an instant.”

The Dragoons were gone _because_ of Durbe, and Yuma entertained the thought of reminding him of that fact for a seventh time. But his curiosity was too strong; no human ever had the opportunity to learn about a Barian lord straight from the source.

“You never really… escape the death, or the guilt. It follows you for your whole life, haunts your dreams every night. It affects your relationship with other people, makes it difficult to trust, maintain friendships, love. But your heart beats on. You survive… but you never escape.”

He could have been talking about his village, or the Dragoons’, or even Yuma’s hell at Arclight. It made Yuma’s skin prickle despite the warmer air of the foothills. Durbe’s voice was calm, but strained.

“They died.”

“Who?”

“Everyone.” He grabbed Yuma’s arm in a weak grip. It took no effort to pull free, but Durbe’s desperation was clear. “My whole village. Poisoned by a plant that got into the water.”

Yuma’s breath caught in his throat as he remembered those ghostly villagers—the revenants, Kaito called them—who cried for justice, _thirsted_ for it, and would never find peace in their souls until they had it. It wasn’t possible, was it, that those specters had once been Durbe’s friends and family?

It infuriated him, because Durbe was a monster, a killer, a genocidal demon, and the thought of him having a support system that was so like Yuma’s own humanized him, and Yuma couldn’t allow himself to humanize this monster.

It saddened him, because maybe Durbe hadn’t always been a monster. Maybe his village’s demise was the catalyst for who—for _what_ —he was to become.

“What would anyone have to gain from killing a group of weak Barians in the desert?” Yuma found himself asking.

“We were nothing but an experiment.” Durbe breathed sharply through his nose. His bitterness was palpable. “To see, I imagine, how effectively and swiftly the poison would kill. Everyone was dead in days.”

“Except you.”

Yuma turned in time to see Durbe clench his fists until his knuckles turned white. Durbe glared at Yuma’s sword, though without seeming to focus on it at all.

“I didn’t ask to live through it. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.”

“Who did it?”

“You understand, I only discovered this recently. Had I known before—”

“Who did it?” Yuma repeated.

Durbe’s mouth thinned. “Alasco.”

Yuma froze for a moment. “The lord?”

“One of the Seven,” Durbe whispered.

“If Alasco was the one who destroyed your village,” Yuma said slowly, “then why are you obsessed with killing Vector? Why not Alasco?”

Durbe didn’t look at him. He stepped gingerly over a pile of prickly chestnut seeds. “Alasco took my past from me. But Vector stole my future, and the future of everyone on this earth.”

“What do you mean?”

“Imagine…” Durbe paused. He stared at the ground with narrowed eyes. “Imagine you believe in a prophecy. This prophecy says that you are destined to unlock great power.”

“There’s no prophecy that speaks to one individual person,” Yuma said impatiently. “Prophecies don’t _happen,_ people _make_ them happen.”

Durbe didn’t roll his eyes, but Yuma could tell by the way Durbe’s lips twisted that it was a near thing. “That’s why I told you to _imagine_.”

“Fine. I’m imagining. What does it have to do with Vector?”

“You believe that this prophecy is about you,” Durbe went on as he began walking again, “so you do everything it says until you believe you are about to unlock an ultimate source of energy. But you mistranslated one word, and that mistranslation could destroy the entire earth.”

“One little word,” Yuma said skeptically. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“It’s possible,” Durbe replied. He narrowed his eyes at the ground again as he walked. If the prickly weeds tearing at his bare feet bothered him, he didn’t make it known. “In the language of your kingdom, the royal family members are considered gods of a sort. Vessels of divine power, with a direct link to the powers of the Astral plane, like the way we Barians have a direct link to Barian World through our soul gems.” He spoke in a rush, and Yuma wondered for a brief moment how long Durbe had wanted to say these things.

“I know that. I’ve served the royal family for three years.”

“Then you’ll understand that in your kingdom’s language, _gods_ and _kings_ are interchangeable words.”

Yuma frowned. He’d never considered it before; he rarely spoke in the Astralite tongue, and then only in prayers and ceremonies. But it was true. _Gods_ and _kings_ were the same word. “I still don’t see what that has to do with—”

“Did Kaito Tenjo ever share with you the Legend of the Dragon?”

He tried to mask his confusion, but some of it probably showed on his face. “It’s only a bedtime story.”

“It was developed independently by three separate cultures, one of which was isolated from the other two. It wasn’t a children’s tale, Yuma Tsukumo, it was a prophecy.”

Yuma threw up his hands. This entire conversation was a mistake, and he was starting to believe that letting Durbe accompany them was an even bigger mistake. Ryoga wasn’t convinced, and rightly so, that Durbe wasn’t drawing Barians in their direction, or that he wasn’t leading them into an elaborate trap. All this nonsense about prophecies and legends was probably just a huge distraction. “What does any of this crap have to do with _anything_?”

“There is a line about the Dragon striking down kings, which gives birth to a new king. Mizael and I took it to mean that the other Barian lords had to fall before a single king could be raised over the kingdom. But… we were wrong. The Dragon will strike down kings, yes, but when the Seven Emperors of Baria are no more, there will not be a new _king_. There will be a new _god_.”

Yuma frowned again. “If kings and gods are the same in the Astralite tongue, wouldn’t it be correct to assume the new king, the new god, is Astral?”

Durbe glanced upward and held out his hands. He mouthed something at the sky before replying, jaw clenching. “It’s not Prince Astral. It’s Don Thousand. Vector is trying to destroy the Seven Emperors so he can—”

He cut off mid-sentence, freezing in place. His already pale face had blanched; his equally pale lips trembled as they parted, his eyes darting up the mountainside, side to side, up and down. Watching them move so rapidly made Yuma dizzy, so he scanned the area carefully, looking for a sign of whatever it was that terrified Durbe so completely and so suddenly. But there was nothing there, just cold-weather trees and a few of Yuma’s bandits.

“What?”

His eyes darted back to Yuma’s face. “We have to move. Much, much faster.” He pulled his cloak tight to his body. “They’re on their way.”


	73. Yuma's Gamble

Sticks snapped underfoot as Yuma sprinted down the path, weaving around trees and the occasional bandit shrinking away from him. He ignored them. There was only one man he cared to speak with at the moment.

“Ryoga!”

He staggered over the last few meters—running at full speed downhill meant that the trajectory would eventually catch up with him—and came to an awkward stop, arms flailing, in front of Ryoga.

“We have a problem,” he wheezed, and now that the burst of energy had worn off, the searing pain in every muscle and bone in his body returned in a rush. He wrapped his arms across his torso, eyes watering as he tried to hold back a fit of coughs.

Ryoga glanced back up the dark path, where Durbe stumbled over the uneven terrain a hundred meters away. “You left it unsupervised.”

“That isn’t the problem.” Yuma’s throat itched and he made the mistake of letting a single cough make its way out; he found himself doubled over in pain as the dry coughing fit that ensued rattled his fractured ribs. He clenched his teeth, eyes watering. “There’s a company of Barians headed this way.”

Ryoga stiffened, hand tightening on his lance as he glanced up the path; the thickening vegetation and tree clusters prevented anyone from seeing farther than a few hundred meters at the sparsest points. Ryoga turned back to Yuma, eyes narrowed. “Did a man report this?”

If he told Ryoga that Durbe had sensed them moving up the other side of the mountain, Ryoga would ignore the warning.

“Just believe me for once, we’re not safe here.”

“We’re not safe _anywhere_ , in case the past four months have escaped your observations.”

“This isn’t the time for your cynicism,” Yuma shot at him.

“This isn’t the time for your naiveté,” Ryoga shot back, crossing his arms. “This is that thing’s doing, isn’t it?”

“They’re hunting him as much as they are us.”

“So it says.”

“For the gods’ sakes, would you just—“

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Ryoga said, voice low, “I am the only god here. But I think I speak for the others when I say we are collectively tired of your inability to make independent decisions _not_ based on your feelings.”

Yuma flinched. This was absolutely not Ryoga speaking; his Ryoga trusted Yuma’s instincts, valued his ability to think clearly even when basing decisions on _feelings_. “We have nothing to lose by moving quickly.”

“Except we increase the chance of making mistakes when we plow ahead without thinking. This is that thing’s plan, Yuma Tsukumo, can’t you see that? It wants us to fail.”

“Your failure is my death.”

Durbe’s approach had been so quiet Yuma hadn’t noticed it. He had clearly hurried after Yuma—he was slightly out of breath—and his feet were caked in mud and blood where sticks and thorns caught his skin. He didn’t hold himself with the proud arrogance of a lord, either; he was slouched, his eyes darting with a clear uncertainty between the two men in front of him.

“Then at least I’ll die satisfied that the one lord I want dead more than any other went with me.” Ryoga spat at his feet.

“I would hope you to be less easily satisfied, _Captain_.” Durbe turned to Yuma, ignoring Ryoga’s bared teeth. “Why do you so desperately seek his approval, Yuma Tsukumo? You are the Captain-Commander, not him. Your word supersedes his.”

He hadn’t thought about that fact; he was only Captain-Commander by a fluke—a false mercy—but Durbe was right, wasn’t he? Legitimate or not, Yuma _was_ the leader of this group. It was his say whether they fought or fled, lived or died.

This was too much responsibility. He never wanted it in the first place.

“If you choose incorrectly, everyone will be dead,” Ryoga said. “Trusting a Barian is a mistake.”

Durbe’s jaw tightened. “The only mistake here is your inability to put aside your arrogance long enough to see the—“

Yuma waved a hand at Durbe. “You—just shut up for—for two minutes.” Durbe opened his mouth and closed it, jaw clenched. Yuma turned back to Ryoga. “We need to run. We can’t win this fight.”

“We won just fine last time.”

“Half these men—these, these _boys_ , they’re not even men—are injured. Kotori is sick.” Yuma gestured weakly toward the huddled rabble making their way toward the river. “They’re bringing more this time, they’re ready for us—“

Ryoga laughed wildly. “They’re bringing more? Says this _thing_ ” —he gestured with his lance at Durbe, who bit his lip and stared at the ground— “that, need I remind you, orchestrated the genocide of my people and the attacks on both Arclight and our home. That, need I remind you, lies for a living.”

Yuma ran his hand over his stiff hair. “I don’t think he has any reason to lie about this—“

“It has _every_ reason to lie about this!”

“I’m not willing to take this chance again. We only lost three last time because Astral summoned that thing—“

“That _thing_ ”—Ryoga grabbed Yuma by the collar; Yuma grunted in pain— “was _your_ doing in the first place, Yuma Tsukumo!”

“I know that!” Yuma managed to twist Ryoga’s wrist enough to loosen his grip on Yuma’s shirt. Yuma kept a firm hold to prevent Shark Drake from grabbing him again. “I don’t want Astral to suffer anymore. I’m _not_ putting him through that. And—and I don’t want…”

He faltered. He barely remembered drawing his sword, let alone wielding it, but he’d seen some of the bodies, gutted like cattle over the mountainside, blood flowing over the rocks like swollen mountain streams. _I did that,_ he reminded himself, and would remind himself every day for the rest of his life. _I killed them without even flinching._

“It doesn’t matter what you want,” Shark Drake hissed, and Yuma knew it was the god and not Ryoga, because Ryoga would have noticed him trembling, his free arm tightening over his torso again. “Pick up your sword and do what you are meant to do, Yuma Tsukumo.”

“This isn’t my future.” Yuma glanced at Durbe, who wasn’t looking at him but could surely hear even if Yuma whispered. He decided to take a chance, and leaned closer to Ryoga. “You told me to keep my heart pure and free of vengeance. I failed you, again and again. I’m tired of failing you, Ryoga.”

Despite Yuma’s grip on his wrist, Shark Drake grabbed Yuma by the jaw and squeezed. Yuma flinched at the pressure; his jaw made an audible cracking sound. His fingers tightened over Ryoga’s hand. “You fail Ryoga Kamishiro only by your obstinacy, Yuma Tsukumo,” he breathed into Yuma’s ear. “Didn’t you want to free him? You know the only way to do it.”

“I will free you,” Yuma whispered. “But I won’t fight a battle I can’t win to do it.”

Shark Drake’s hand tightened before releasing Yuma’s jaw. Yuma let go of his wrist. “You’ll have to fight at some point, Yuma Tsukumo.”

“I’ll fight when there’s no other option available to me.”

“Every minute you stand here and argue is another minute Koche and his elite soldiers have to reach us,” Durbe interrupted, fingers tapping his crossed arms.

“I told you to shut up.”

“It’s been two minutes.”

There was nothing remotely bearable about Durbe, Yuma decided.

“The choice to stay and die or flee and possibly live a day longer is not Ryoga Kamishiro’s choice, but yours,” Durbe said with a shrug. “You won’t reach Vector any faster by standing here.”

“Why don’t you just make your magic portal and whisk yourself away to kill Vector?” Ryoga hissed, grabbing Durbe by the front of his shirt.

“I can’t… kill him on my own.”

“Oh? So you’re using us.” Ryoga shoved Durbe away. Durbe stumbled and fell back into a puddle of mud. “You must see the surprise on my face.”

“Ryoga.” Yuma sounded as exhausted as he felt. “Gather everyone together and meet at the edge of the forest, in view of the river. It’s only another half mile now.”

“Are you going to have us flee like cowards?”

“No.” Yuma glanced back up the mountain. “We’re going home.”

Ryoga cast both Yuma and Durbe a contemptuous look before turning on his heel and storming off. Yuma watched him go with the same regret he’d felt when they had fled their kingdom months before; he wasn’t sure, even now, if he had made the right choice splitting their group up. Rio and Ryoga never would have let the Arclights capture them. They never would have had to escape Arclight. They never would have gone to Sargasso, never would have gone back to the Shrine…

Rio never would have died... Ryoga never would have made the pact with Shark Drake...

_Am I about to make another terrible mistake?_ he wondered.

“Get up.”

He didn’t need to turn around to know Durbe was heaving himself to his feet. He may not have been a lord any longer, but he was still prideful.

“Tell me why I should trust you, the enemy, over the man I have served for two years.”

“By all accounts, you should not. I am gambling with my life just as much as you are gambling with theirs.”

“To help us.”

“To help myself. To help my kingdom.”

Yuma stepped forward. Durbe followed, a few feet behind. “You _are_ using us, then.”

Durbe sighed, a soft, reluctant sound. “We share a common goal.”

“To kill a lord that you worked alongside.”

“Don’t assume I ever worked at Vector’s side. He had nothing but disdain for me.”

“What is this, then?” Yuma turned to face him. Durbe stopped mid-step. There was enough moonlight shining through the thinning trees that Yuma could see the bitterness in Durbe’s face. “A chance at redemption?”

Durbe snorted. “Redemption? There is no redemption for someone who has done what I have done.”

“Then _what_?”

When Durbe sighed again, his breath quivered. “When I sat in that prison cell, Vector came to me. He told me that Mizael only loved me because I gave him my friendship. But I realized it was more than that. It wasn’t that he loved me conditionally, but that he loved only _me_. And I can’t… sometimes I wonder if—if I ever loved him half as much as he loved me. I used him. I lied to him. I kept secrets and he knew it but—” He shrugged helplessly. “He followed me without hesitation. Neither of us understood what it was we felt because we’d never felt it before.”

A shiver ran through Yuma’s body. He held his arms close to his chest again.

Durbe didn’t seem to notice. “Vector took that from me. He ridiculed that love. He killed my friends and laughed in my face. And he is threatening the peace of the world I gave up any lingering threads of humanity to achieve. He is dangerous, he is a monster, and he needs to be stopped.”

“You think—“ Yuma’s voice came out raspy. He swallowed. “You think… you’re doing the right thing, after all you’ve done to the contrary.”

“Tell me, Yuma Tsukumo, when you made love to Ryoga Kamishiro, was it what you both wanted? Was it the right thing for you?”

Yuma’s face burned and he turned away. He thought about ignoring the question; bait, he was sure, to get him to expose his weaknesses to Durbe. But then, didn’t Durbe already know his weaknesses? “I don’t know where you got the idea—”

“You look at him the way Mizael once looked at me.”

“Don’t compare my relationship with Ryoga to yours and Mizael’s,” Yuma said icily. He stared straight ahead as they walked and regretted entering into this conversation. Too little too late.

“I’m not wrong.” There wasn’t even a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “Sorrowful, wistful longing for something forbidden to you. Something you thought you had but let slip through your fingers. I know that look better than you know. Maybe you aren’t lovers, but you knew him. Maybe just once, but that’s enough.”

Yuma hated that he was right.

“I have just the one question, Yuma Tsukumo. A simple yes or no.”

It was a gross oversimplification of a complex situation. His relationship with Ryoga had been, from the very first moment they had met, one of chaos, confusion, repression, guilt, and sorrow. Yes, he had wanted Ryoga, but the circumstances were less than ideal. Had Rio not died, would it have happened? Ryoga had insisted that he needed Yuma that night, and Yuma had stayed to provide the warmth and comfort Ryoga sought. But it was out of a deep depression that Ryoga had asked Yuma to stay. He’d been drinking, crying, alone, and Yuma’s body had been a convenient outlet for escape, even for a short time.

“There is no simple answer.”

“For you, perhaps.”

The sound of rushing water grew louder with each step. A few dozen figures waited at the forest’s edge—pacing, leaning against trees, sitting on the forest floor.

_They’re waiting for me,_ Yuma realized. _They’re waiting for me to lead them to their deaths._

“Why did you bring… that up?” he said softly. “About—about me and Ryoga.”

Durbe picked at his lip again. “Because you’re not much different. You would do anything for him, at the cost of your own soul. Just as Mizael did for me. Is it right? Is it wrong? It doesn't matter, because it _feels_ right.”

_What would you do to have him back?_

_Anything_.

“I have a plan,” he said quietly, “but if you’re serious about wanting to help, now’s your time to prove it.”

* * *

 

Ilya expected Vector much sooner.

Each time there was a commotion in the hallway, she waited, fire at her fingertips, for him to crash through the heavy dining hall doors. When the doors did slam open, it was Alasco first; she maintained plausible deniability, insisting she had been _here_ in Heartland at the time of Durbe’s escape, a fact that Polara confirmed. Alasco, though not convinced, was forced to concede that it may not have been Ilya’s doing and left the palace in a rage. Pherka was next, more grim-faced than usual, and reported that Koche was mobilizing a company of soldiers to investigate something. She wouldn’t say—or maybe didn’t know—where or what Koche was investigating. Polara didn’t press the issue. She held her wine and stared out at the crumbling city.

It was past sunset when Vector arrived.

He might have gotten in a cheap shot had Ilya not spent the day waiting for him. Indeed, he sent a burst of flames right at her without preamble the second the door opened, and she barely deflected it.

“ _Vector—_ “

“ _Where is he!?”_ Vector ignored Polara completely, eyes focused on Ilya with a vengeful intensity she had never seen on him before.

She stood her ground, back straight and head held high. “He’s obviously not here.”

This time, she was completely prepared for his attack, and deflected the flames with a lazy wave of her hands. The rush of burning air rustled her hair.

Vector’s eyes flashed. “You freed him!”

“Why the hell would I risk everything freeing a traitor?” Her face grew hot; not, she knew from the heat, but because she was getting flustered, and her breathing was heavy. She cursed her fragile human body. But if she were to transform into her body right there, he would know she was trying to hide her emotions.

_Calm yourself._ She closed her mouth and focused on taking slow breaths through her nose instead. She relaxed her shoulders, though her clenched hands were still engulfed in flames.

“Maybe you’re a traitor, too.”

Before Polara could do more than say her name, Ilya cleared the short gap between her and Vector and aimed her burning fist at his face. He caught it in his and dug his clawed fingernails into her pale flesh; she ground her teeth but refused to flinch despite him drawing blood. She crossed her other arm under his and jerked his arm upward; his grip loosened on her hand and she pulled free with a wide sweeping motion, aiming a blazing kick at the back of his knees right as his balance shifted.

“You—ngh—“

He stumbled back, staying upright at the last moment by throwing his good leg back. His eyes were screwed up in a combination of fury and—she imagined—pain; the rough skin behind his knee smoked and blistered.

“Don’t you ever… call me a traitor again.”

Vector glared up at her before straightening up. Ilya felt a faint pleasure at the sight of him placing all of his body weight on his good leg, but it was short-lived.

“But someone who commits treason is _called_ a traitor, Illy dear.”

He was ready when she aimed an arc of fire at him; his attempt at deflection wasn’t strong enough to stop it entirely, but it was enough to slow it so he could vault it and hurl himself at her before she could prepare her next attack.

The fire hit the doors with a deafening sound, setting the wood aflame instantly; Ilya didn’t have time to react before Vector’s hand found her throat and threw her with an agonizing crash into the table. The force of the impact cracked the table, but the pain in her body was nothing compared to the panic of being unable to breathe; her mouth opened without a sound, her hands clawed futilely against Vector’s, her vision swirled around her, her lungs would surely burst—

Vector’s hand released her throat as though burned; Ilya, gulping in wheezy breaths of hot air, knew she hadn’t consciously made the effort to engulf her body in flames. The cause of Vector’s sudden surrender occurred to her only after she struggled to roll over onto her side and saw Polara with her hands outstretched, face screwed up in concentration. The air was thick and distorted, like looking through a discolored glass.

“Out,” Polara said in a strained voice.

“You may have saved Durbe, but there won’t be anyone to save _you_ , Ilya.”

“ _Now!”_

He was gone in an instant, leaving behind his faint energy. For a moment, the only sounds were Ilya’s labored breathing, the crackling of the flames eating away at the door, and the sounds of people in the hallway attempting to extinguish the fire.

Polara lowered her hands and knelt on the floor. “You should put that out before it spreads.”

Ilya slid her hand across her chest until her fingers touched her gem, lying flat against her breastbone. The pulsing energy comforted her, calmed her breathing enough for her to focus on telling the fire to recede. Within twenty seconds, only a small flame licked at the charred doors. No matter what she did, it repelled her.

“Not mine,” she managed, leaning against the table. “His.”

Polara pulled herself to her feet, using the chair for support, took the pitcher of water on the table, and splashed it on the weak flame; it hissed and smoked angrily as it died. With a frustrated sigh, she walked back to the table and flopped in the chair Ilya had vacated when Vector arrived.

“He was going to kill you.”

Ilya rubbed at her neck with a shaking hand and slid from the table into the chair next to Polara’s. Watching Polara kill the flame that Ilya couldn’t control reminded her of the flames wreaking havoc on the city, the flames she could not control. Normal flames bowed to her will, but not the flames of other mages. They had a will of their own.

_Do they have a mage?_ Pherka had asked once, and Ilya had thought it must have been a rogue human.

But she had been wrong all along.

“He’s going to kill all of us,” she whispered.

“We need to—“

“We’re already down to five, we’re not strong enough to subdue him.” Ilya coughed, wincing at the pain in her back from when Vector threw her into the table.

“We have to warn the others.” Polara’s voice was soft. She was worried. That made two of them.

“Where is Koche?” Ilya’s voice was hoarse.

Polara closed her eyes. “Astral Kingdom.”

“Where?” Ilya pressed.

“I don’t know. The mountains, I think.”

“Vector’s going to kill him first.”

Polara’s eyes snapped open again. “Do you think I don’t know that? I don’t know where in the mountains he is, and I doubt I can get a messenger to him in time. The only one of us who knows those mountains is…” She slouched in her chair, covering her face with one hand. “ _Was…_ ”

Durbe had scouted the mountains for months, preparing for the attack on Astral Kingdom. He was the one to come up with the plan to send soldiers in disguise on cargo ships over the course of several weeks to slowly infiltrate the kingdom without alerting the Astral Guard’s Captain-Commander. He always was the one to come up with the plans, abhorrent as they were. “There were Barians who joined Durbe on those scouts who must know the mountains and can get a message to Koche before Vector gets to him.”

“It would take time to dig out Durbe’s logistics from all those months ago and figure out who those scouts were.”

“We don’t _have_ time, Polara.”

“Now you finally see _my_ problem.”

Ilya clenched the chair of her arm to keep her hands from shaking. “Where did you put that dagger?”

“Pherka has it.”

“Is she in Baria?”

“Yes.”

Ilya stood. “I’m going to go warn her.”

“Ilya.” Polara’s head rested on the back of the chair as she stared at the high ceiling. “Don’t engage him. He’s stronger than we realized.”

If Vector came near her again, she would be ready. She would kill him before he had the chance to kill her.

“You realize that Durbe was right all along, don’t you, Polara?”

Vector must have been the one to scribe the means of their deaths in that book. He had orchestrated Durbe’s trial, had chosen the very means by which Durbe was to be executed. How he would poison Pherka and convince Polara to take her own life were a mystery, but she had to focus on herself, and she refused to let him have his way with her.

“Durbe committed treason too, Ilya. Don’t justify his actions.”

Ilya knew that she could risk pressing the issue now, when the Emperors couldn’t afford further division in their ranks. They had splintered, irreparably. One lord stripped of his titles and his dignity, one roaming free after attempting to kill another. They had to put down Vector and, God willing, find and put down Durbe. Only then could they rebuild their ranks and bring stability back to the Empire. But Polara was exhausted, both from the force of holding back two mages and from the burden of presiding over the most divided Council in written history. Ilya had to focus on staying alive, now that she knew what Vector was capable of.

“Stay in Baria,” Polara said as Ilya prepared to leave. “But be careful.”

Ilya had no plans to leave Baria once she was there. If Vector intended to have her drowned after all, there was no worse place for it than the mountains in the desert, where water was not a natural occurrence or necessary for the survival of the Barian elites.

“What of Heartland?”

Polara tilted her head so she could look out at the river beyond the wide windows. For a few seconds, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were filled with resignation.

“We may have to let it go until we sort everything out.”

“Will we?”

“Stay in Baria,” Polara repeated, voice tired, “and be careful.”

There was nothing to fear about Baria, Ilya reminded herself as she returned, slippered feet brushing against the hard floor of her quarters. The Crystal amplified her powers. And there was no fear of drowning where there was no water.

Outside the palace, the never-ending acid rain sizzled against the crystal walls.

* * *

 

All eyes were on him, the silence eerie. He had to say the words out loud; if he didn’t, he might try backing out. Saying the words would hold him to them.

“We’re going to take back our palace by the end of the week, and we’ll do it without losing a single person.”

This pronouncement was met with skeptical glances and half-shrugs; one bandit, scarcely an adult, raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“Beg forgiveness, Cap’n, but how in the hell?”

“How what?”

"How are we supposed to get across the river without fighting?" Ryoga demanded, and there was an outbreak of nodding. "The river is freezing and the current is too fast to swim. All the bridges are going to be heavily guarded. If you think we’ll be slaughtered standing our ground, it’ll be worse trying to cross the river by foot. A few of us might be able to get across alive, but there’s no chance all of us will."

There was one alternative, as far as Yuma knew, and it was hardly more desirable. Certainly, it would save more lives, but there was the chance innocent bystanders would get involved against their will. "Borrow a ferry. There are a few along this river that are large enough to carry a dozen cattle with no problems."

Astral folded his arms, eyes narrowed toward the river. “Interesting that you would bring cattle into this.”

“The ferries are on the other side of the river,” Charlie pointed out, “which doesn’t do us any good.”

“Sometimes there are boats on this side of the river,” Yuma said. “In case there’s an issue with the ferry going back. Not enough boats for all of us, and it would take too long to shuttle back and forth. We need a few people to take a boat over the river, borrow the ferry, and come straight back.”

The silence that followed was broken after about ten seconds by Reina, who muttered “this is a fuckin’ disaster,” and Kotori, who laughed weakly from her position sitting against a tree.

“How long will something like that take?” Durbe demanded.

“Depends.” Charlie crossed his arms. “Half an hour to get the boats across the river, another fifteen to secure the ferry, another twenty to get the ferry back across the river. Ten to load up. A little over an hour and a half for the whole thing, and that’s if we’re lucky.”

“We’re gonna have to hope we’re lucky, then.”

_Now’s the hard part._

He broke up the meeting by directing groups of bandits to do different tasks—some moved into the forest a short distance to make small fires on which to cook some of the deer they had dragged with them, others had taken up position in the trees to watch for any movement down the mountain—and Yuma hunted down Charlie, then Kurosaki, and another of Kurosaki’s friends. They were to get the ferry, he told them. Charlie complained, predictably, but when Yuma reminded him that he didn’t _technically_ have to spare his hand for thievery, he shut up.

After a brief conversation with Kurosaki and his friend, where neither said a word throughout Yuma’s entire briefing of their task, they set off, and Yuma let out a low breath. He watched the three of them head along the winding river bank and disappear from sight and didn’t move until Anna came up next to him.

“Hey.” Anna wrapped him in a sudden embrace and leaned her head close to his ear. His initial tension melted away. “Do you trust him? The gambler?”

He absentmindedly patted her back. “I trust him to accomplish something only he can accomplish.”

“That’s good and vague,” Anna muttered, pulling away. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

_Me too._ “I have a task for you.”

She sighed. “It’s not something that’ll get me killed, is it?”

Yuma’s expression was probably not reassuring, because she sighed again. He reached for her arm. “Anna, it’s something I trust only _you_ to pull off. But if it doesn’t work, you might end up dead.”

“Thanks for the confidence… I guess?”

He gave her an apologetic smile and pressed a folded and sealed paper into her hands. She glanced down at it.

She glanced back up.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re putting a lot of faith in a…” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “In a Barian.”

He wished people would stop telling him that.

“Still… I’m in too deep to back out now.” Anna tucked the paper into her robes, sighed, and flexed her hands. “Tell me what you need me to do.”


	74. Tactical Retreat

A heavy fog settled over the Revise River, the thick, milky clouds almost suffocating. Still, Yuma welcomed it. The harder it was for the Barians to see more than a quarter mile upriver, the easier it would be to escape.

But the fog came with one problem: it would be harder for Charlie to navigate the ferry back to the camp. If he drifted too far north, he might get too close to the bridge, and it was too much to hope those Barians wouldn’t see him.

He was far more concerned with Anna’s mission, which would require her and a handful of others to engage with any Barians they might run into on the way. Yuma was banking too heavily on diplomacy, and Durbe not lying, for her to complete her mission successfully. If she failed, more bloodshed was inevitable and he may well have condemned her to death. For someone who had nothing to gain and everything to lose from following Yuma, this was an unacceptable outcome.

Kotori sat slumped against a tree, forehead pressing into her knees, drawn up to her chest. A few feet away, Durbe sat with a tiny journal, making notes with a pen he had acquired from the gods knew where. The rest of the bandits were scattered through the trees, some gnawing on the deer they had brought with. Others sat around gambling, though Yuma didn’t have the heart to chide them for it. Ryoga wouldn’t sit within thirty meters of the disgraced Barian lord and Yuma knew Astral was near him, so at least he was safe; it was almost a relief not to have to listen to Ryoga make rude comments under his breath every time Durbe so much as sneezed.

He refused to let the lord out of his sight. This, clearly, did not bother Durbe in the slightest. Maybe he enjoyed having company, antagonistic as it was; if he was telling the truth about having been imprisoned for a week with no company but Vector, it was probably a nice change of pace. At any rate, Yuma found his cynicism a better gauge of what they should and should not try than Shark Drake’s demanding insistence that they all charge headfirst up a mountain carrying nothing but pointy sticks and engage with trained Barian warriors.

“I doubted it would work,” Durbe said, making a few notes in the margins, “but in this case, the fog may well be the difference between success and failure.”

Yuma stared into the swirling white clouds obstructing his view of the river, finger tapping against his elbow. “If you betrayed us, I will kill you myself.”

“Not much good it would do you in the end, would it?” Durbe flipped a page with the same feigned indifference. Yuma knew he was anxious, too; he kept rubbing his ankle with his bare foot and periodically glanced around with rapid, furtive jerks of the head.

“I would feel better.”

“I have no reason to betray you, as I have said.”

“As you have said.”

Durbe looked at him from over the top of the journal, shifting his jaw. “Some might say this fog is a blessing from the gods, wouldn’t you?”

As if _they_ cared. “No.”

“Hm.” Durbe resumed scanning the pages of his book, squinting at the tiny script. “My apologies, I mistakenly assumed you lived your life in accordance with the directives of higher powers.”

It wasn’t even a subtle insult this time. “Something like you wouldn’t know what it’s like to give your life to your religion only to find out after twenty-four years that your gods are a bunch of nihilistic assholes who have been using you since before you were born.”

Durbe stared off at a tree for a second and sighed. “No, I have _no idea_ what that must be like.”

Yuma was thinking of a scathing reply when Kotori stirred, whimpering something in a high voice. He fell to his knees next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Even Durbe looked on with something resembling concern in his shadowed face.

“Are you okay, Kotori?” Yuma whispered, pressing a hand to her face. Her skin burned and his stomach twisted. She hadn’t felt well the whole trek up the mountain—and who could blame her, expected to Heal when already past the point of physical exhaustion—and now— 

She whimpered again, the incoherent word punctuated with a sob.

“I don’t understand what you’re—”

“Rio,” Durbe murmured, and when Yuma cast him a dark look, he held up a hand placatingly. “She’s asking for Rio Kamishiro.”

“She’s gone,” Yuma said, voice breaking.

“Rio,” Kotori whispered.

Yuma pulled her into his chest with one arm, the other fumbling through Kotori’s knapsack. He didn’t know what herbs she might have or if there was anything in there to pull a fever down, but—

Durbe’s pale hand intervened, placing a wet cloth to Kotori’s face. When Yuma recoiled from their proximity, Durbe simply moved closer.

“She saved Mizael’s life,” he said, wiping the sweat from Kotori’s brow. “He was an enemy. She could have let him die, but she kept him alive.”

“She’s a Healer.” Yuma choked the words out. “She _needs_ a Healer but she’s the only one we’ve got.”

Durbe placed the cloth on top of Kotori’s head and picked up a water pouch. “There’s one more person in this camp who can Heal.” He tipped the water into her mouth, holding her jaw shut until she swallowed. “Go get Prince Astral.”

* * *

 

The ship was much too small to do anything but transport luxury goods from Heartland to some of the port towns in Tenjo and Arclight, but it was large enough to have need of a crew larger than three people and the captain, a fact that was more apparent when the crew consisted of two assassins and two princes, none of whom knew how to commandeer a ship very well. As a result, Thomas was forced to conscript half a dozen mercenaries, promising them the spices already aboard the ship as payment. Though they were reluctant, the prospect of a modest wealth in luxury goods swayed them, and they were able to get the ship moving. By the time they had set off, Thomas thought it a miracle they hadn’t been boarded by Barian patrols looking for whoever was responsible for the massacre on the riverbank. It would take about two, two and half days to reach the palace at Arclight, maybe more if the wind didn’t cooperate—a thought, Thomas soon realized, that was not far off reality.

Four hours in, he was already sick of travel by river; Kaito, with his secretive sullenness, was hardly good company—not that Thomas _wanted_ to talk to him after the way he’d slit a Barian’s throat as it begged for mercy—and the assassins weren’t much better. He’d learned that both of them had swirling purple tattoos from neck to foot, something that he hadn’t noticed when they were both fully clothed and in fact only realized upon walking in on them stark naked on their hands and knees on top of the captain’s bed, Gauche mounting Droite from behind. Neither seemed to care when he walked in, though they definitely _noticed_ , as Droite asked him an hour later with a knowing smile if he still wanted the bed. (He didn’t.)

There weren’t many other places to go on the ship but the deck. Kaito spent most of his time sitting on the side with his legs dangling over the river, caressing his sword with a loving finger. It was an eerie sight, made worse by the fact that the blade had taken on a slight reddish tinge in the moonlight; it had always had a polished silver glean. If Thomas were more superstitious, he might have believed Kaito’s sword was drinking in the Barian blood it had spilled.

The moon was bright above them and cast a blinding reflection on the river’s rippling surface. It made Thomas more anxious; the farther they sailed from the cities, the denser the treelines along the river became. Anyone could be hiding in the trees. Anyone could see them. All it would take was one Barian to have noticed an unauthorized ship heading east along the river before they had a whole army on their ass.

But Kaito didn’t seem bothered. In fact, Thomas was certain Kaito would welcome any Barians sent to kill them.

“Will he be waiting when we pass through Arclight?”

There was no point in pretending he hadn’t been standing there staring at Kaito’s back for the past few minutes, so Thomas approached the starboard and resisted the urge to give Kaito a good shove right into the river. It would have done the world some good, probably. “Will who be waiting?”

Kaito turned his head. Thomas almost wished that the mark around his eye would come back, because it unnerved him less than this hungry look in his eyes now. “Chris.”

Sending Mihael home to alert Chris to what Kaito was plotting had seemed a smart idea at the time. After all, Chris was probably the only one strong enough to stand in Kaito’s way and come out victorious. But there was no way in hell Chris would actually kill Kaito whereas Kaito could and would very well kill Chris if he thought Chris was preventing him from doing… whatever it was Kaito was hellbent on doing. “I don’t know. Probably.”

The ship would have to dock in Arclight for inspection before being allowed to pass through on the way to the Barian Kingdom. The river would then continue north for a short while before draining into a large lake that had once served as an unofficial buffer between the Dragoon territory, Arclight, and the Barian Kingdom. Ships docked at a small port town about three miles south of the lake, were unloaded, and goods destined for Baria reloaded onto carts built for mountain roads. Such mundane tasks never received the attention of the Arclight family. But this one would, if only because the ship carried a member of the Arclight family, right along with two assassins and the crown prince of the Tenjo kingdom.

“I don’t want to stop in Arclight,” Kaito declared, thumbing the hilt of his sword.

Thomas let out a breath between his teeth. “I don’t fucking care, we’re stopping.”

Kaito turned, cold eyes boring into Thomas’s face. “Oh? What’s to stop me from passing the port anyway?”

“Me.”

Slowly, without taking his eyes from Thomas’s face, Kaito slid his legs from over the railing and hopped onto the deck, boots thumping on the wood. “Is that so.”

“You forget that the man who taught you the sword is also my brother.”

They were brave words: Kaito respected Chris, acknowledged Chris’s skill, and knew that Chris was a capable teacher. But he knew Thomas was decidedly more of a strategist than a swordsman, and that meant he knew he would more than likely kick Thomas’s ass in a fight.

“Then prove it.”

“I’m not your enemy, Kaito.”

“If you stand in my way, then yes, you are.”

Thomas swore under his breath. “For the gods’ sakes, if you go after Baria, you’re going to end up dead. Have you ever been to Baria?”

“No.”

“No!” Thomas gestured dramatically at the air. He then realized he was gesturing westward and turned around so his arm pointed toward the Barian Kingdom instead. There was no point in ruining his theatrics with something as menial as cardinal directions. “Because _no one has_ , Kaito! No human, in recorded history, has ever made it to the Barian capitol. None. Zero.” He paced a few steps before turning around again. To his non-surprise, Kaito leaned on his sword with a bored look on his face. “Humans don’t belong there, Kaito. There’s no food, no water, and I’ve heard their palace is even built out of their crystal. The very walls they live in give them life energy. You will die.”

Kaito gazed toward two of the mercenaries loitering around the stern, expression blank. “Humans don’t belong there…” He repeated the phrase twice more, face darkening. “Humans don’t belong in Baria, yet Barians belong in Arclight? In Tenjo? In—gods forbid— _Astral_?”

“Kaito—”

“No, no, explain to me, Thomas Arclight, how they have the right to blockade our ports, seize our ships, usurp our governments, and spill _our_ blood, and we won’t fight back, for what! For what!” Spittle flew from his mouth. “Do you think things will get better? Is your father going to get better by you sitting on your hands whining?”

“Leave my family out of this,” Thomas warned, hand finding the hilt of the unused sword at his waist.

Kaito laughed wildly. “Your family was only the second casualty of the Barian Empire. Have you ever thought about it, Thomas? The Dragoons were annihilated, but they fought back and the Barians held off for ten years. You? You let them take over without a fight, and not only Arclight but Astral, Heartland, _and_ my kingdom fell in less than one.”

“Are you blaming my family for the Barian Empire?”

“You should have fought back!” Kaito slammed the tip of his sword into the deck. “Gods _damn_ you, you and Chris both, feeding me this bullshit about how I shouldn’t _deprive Haruto of the brother he loves and needs more than anything because I’m too proud to kneel._ So I knelt to keep Haruto safe. I knelt to keep Chris safe. I knelt to keep _you_ safe. I did what they told me to until it was clear to me that they weren’t going to uphold their end of the bargain. And you know? I’m so _fucking_ tired of kneeling.”

“Maybe Haruto wouldn’t be gone if you had stayed on your own feet instead of letting your blind obsession with _my_ brother dictate your policy.”

He was expecting the blow, so he was prepared to deflect it. What he didn’t expect was the force with which Kaito struck him, and he stumbled back three steps.

There wasn’t much time to move to dodge the next three strikes, yet Thomas did. Kaito came at him, both hands clenching the hilt of the sword, which was perhaps the only saving grace for Thomas, who dodged easily. But a quick sidestep that should have given him aim at Kaito’s open back was parried with a pirouette by Kaito, and their blades clanged again. Kaito was impossibly fast—even in his blind rage he was keeping Thomas on his toes—and each attempt to disarm Kaito was met with resistance. Thomas even tried to trip Kaito—an underhanded tactic, to be sure—but Kaito bounced to safety and lunged inward with a lightning thrust in the same movement.

It would have been a hopeless situation if not for the assassins.

A sharp sting in his neck caught him off guard and he only managed to avoid Kaito’s next blow by dropping to his knees, fingers fumbling at his neck and finding a tiny dart. But he couldn’t have moved any more than that, as his arms tingled and went completely numb in the space of about ten seconds. His sword clattered to the deck. Then his legs lost all mobility and he flopped to the deck like a rag doll.

It took Kaito a moment longer to react to the poison, and he had almost lifted his sword high enough to bring it down in a lethal blow before his arms gave out and he dropped to the deck next to Kaito. His sword skidded uselessly three feet away from Thomas’s head.

“That should keep you quiet for a few hours,” Droite said, clicking her tongue impatiently. Gauche picked up Thomas’s blade, shaking his head in amusement. Thomas didn’t really see what was funny about the situation, but then, maybe it would have been quite a sight to see two princes lying uselessly on a ship deck while their own hired mercenaries looked on. “You’ll both have plenty of time to lie here and think about what you’ve done.”

Kaito tried to speak, but his jaw seemed reluctant to move so his words came out in a garbled growl.

“Yeah, I’m sure you will.” Droite toed Kaito’s sword out of the way without touching its blade. “We’ll be in Arclight in less than two days. Behave yourselves, boys.” She held up a small vial, half-full of liquid. “I’ve got plenty to keep you quiet until then if you get out of hand again.”

* * *

 

Not for the first time, Astral didn’t know what was going on.

He didn’t trust the gambler, yet Yuma sent him on the most important part of the mission. He didn’t know where Yuma sent the merchant. He didn’t know why Yuma was moving them farther upriver through the thick forests (“the ferry itself is a few miles up this way,” he had explained to skeptical bandits). He didn’t understand why Yuma directed some bandits to stay behind at the campsite and dig trenches along the treeline. He didn’t understand why Yuma, for the second time, would trust the success of their quest and their own lives to the word of a Barian Emperor whose life and status were built on lies and manipulation.

Ryoga—or rather, the god that inhabited his body—scarcely said a word against any of Yuma’s plans. Certainly, he expressed his displeasure through scowling and inaudible cursing and acts of violence against innocent flora but he said nothing, did nothing, to Yuma. What the true Ryoga thought of it all was equally unknown; when asked, the god skewered the nearest inanimate object with his lance before stalking away.

So Astral was left with his thoughts, though he would not be alone with them for long.

"Astral." A hand touched his arm—not a grip, but a light brush, hesitant—and Astral swallowed.

Black Mist laughed, a high, cold sound that made the hairs on Astral's arm stand on end. "Hm! What does he want this time, I wonder?"

"I need to talk to you." Yuma's quiet request was nearly overpowered by Black Mist's laugh.

"'Forgive me, Astral!'" Black Mist mock-pleaded. It grabbed Astral's shoulder, touched his face. Astral turned his head away, toward Yuma.

“Then speak,” Astral said over Black Mist’s high laughter, “and quickly.”

“What I did was unforgivable.” He didn’t look Astral in the face as he knelt, the contortions in his face betraying his attempts to pretend he wasn’t still in tremendous pain. “I betrayed your trust. I betrayed you.” He took a deep breath. “I haven’t slept a full night in months. My waking hours are filled with phantom screams and the smell of blood on my hands.” His shoulders shook. “But… please…”

Astral’s lips parted as he realized what was happening. Yuma wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He was asking for punishment. “I can’t absolve you of sin, Yuma, only the gods can—”

“You _are_ my god.”

Black Mist laughed again, the screeching sound of it twisting Astral’s gut.

“Yuma—”

“If your will is that I live with the guilt until my mission is complete, I will do so without complaint,” Yuma went on in barely a whisper. His eyes were fixed on the cluster of ivy at Astral’s feet. “If your will is that I… is that I…” His hands convulsed; his shaky breaths quickened. “I’ll kill them, for you. Just, please… can’t I… find peace… when this is all over?”

Astral’s own hands were surprisingly steady as he cupped Yuma’s face and forced Yuma to look up at him. He ignored Black Mist’s laughter, faint now that Astral was focused. “Yuma, I am not a god. I am a human whose powers are granted _by_ the gods.” He shook his head, limp hair flopping in his eyes. “When this is over, if…” He paused. Somehow the words _if we survive this_ seemed wrong for the occasion, but then, false hope would certainly be worse. “If our quest is successful, I would like you to take up the mantle denied you before any of this happened.”

Yuma blinked, once, twice, three times… He clearly hadn’t expected this response, whatever it was he had envisioned Astral saying. “The… your bodyguard?”

“A king needs someone he can trust by his side at all times,” Astral found himself saying, and Black Mist’s protests, though faint, were still clear. _He betrayed you… he hurt you… he corrupted your powers…_

Yuma’s eyes fell again. “I betrayed you,” he said uncertainly.

“You did.”

“I lied to you.”

“You did.”

“For a…”

“For a Barian. Yes. You did.” 

“And yet—”

“I have not yet forgiven you, fully.” Astral let go of Yuma’s face and held out his hands for Yuma to take, which he did with the same uncertainty. He lifted Yuma to his feet. “When someone you love hurts you, it takes time to heal.”

Yuma nodded at the ground. His hands tightened over Astral’s. “Astral… Kotori is sick.”

His voice was filled with desperation; this was clearly the purpose for his begging forgiveness. From the time Astral was old enough to read, he had studied his religion, the powers granted by the gods, and the expectations attached to that direct channel. Astral knew that Healers had to let go of animosity toward others in order to draw on the powers of Astral World. “I’m not a Healer, Yuma.”

“You can summon deities to fight, you… you can create those portals, you—you can Heal, I know you can—”

How could he make Yuma understand that the most he had been able to do with his powers since Black Mist had materialized was to utterly destroy? “When you asked forgiveness, was it for Kotori’s sake?”

Yuma’s response confirmed his suspicions. “A Healer can’t have hatred in their heart.”

“ _I’m not a Healer_.”

“She’s going to die.”

“Yuma, there’s nothing I can do.”

He grasped blindly for Astral’s hand, body shaking. “Please… she’s given everything for us, please just… please try. Please.”

An intangible pressure settled on Astral’s shoulder. Black Mist leaned its elbow on him and stared down at Yuma. “Mm-mm-mm. I doubt he feels any remorse for what he’s done. He just wants a Healer.” It slithered over to Yuma and brushed long, tendril-like fingers over Yuma’s face. Maybe it was only Astral’s imagination, but it looked like Yuma’s face scrunched up at the touch, though Yuma couldn’t see or feel it. “Help me, Astral! I can’t sleep at night. I smell blood on my hands all the time. If I don’t kill something, I’ll surely go mad!”

Astral’s stomach twisted, because he was sure Black Mist’s words were a mirror of what Astral was pretending he wasn’t really thinking. “I’ll try,” he said quietly, “for Kotori. But don’t be angry or disappointed when it doesn’t work.”

He ignored Yuma’s numb nod as he headed toward the river. Black Mist, which had been fading out earlier in the conversation, had regained some of its form—and its voice.

“Say it doesn’t work and the Healer dies,” it said conversationally. “Do you think Yuma Tsukumo will handle it well? The captain won’t care, I’m sure. Wait, no, the captain will care but everyone will think he doesn’t because the god in his body doesn’t care. Which I guess is pretty indicative of what the rest of them think.”

Astral gritted his teeth and walked faster.

“If _I_ were a god,” it went on, “I wouldn’t want to issue any blessings on this crew of atheistic murderers and thieves, you see?”

“They’re not atheists,” Astral muttered.

“What?” Yuma asked.

“Not y—nothing.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Black Mist stroked its chin. Astral tried very hard not to look at it. “But they are still murderers and thieves, which the gods still frown upon. And, really, if they know the gods exist and still defy them, isn’t that worse than simply pretending they’re nothing more than balls of gas or whatever?”

Astral couldn’t argue with that.

“Hypothetically speaking, if I had the power to Heal—”

“I’m not in the mood for a hypothetical theology session,” Astral hissed. It was hard enough trying to stay focused on the task ahead without the physical manifestation of every lingering doubt about his faith hounding him every five seconds.

“Astral?”

He ignored Yuma.

Kotori was slumped against a tree, eyes closed. Next to her knelt the Barian, dabbing a dirty cloth over her forehead.

“Ew, it’s touching her,” Black Mist commented, amused.

“Get away.”

Durbe looked up. “Prince Astral.”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

With a barely perceptible glance in Yuma’s direction, Durbe inclined his head and climbed unsteadily to his feet. As he backed away, he muttered, “she has a high fever.”

Astral ignored him as well and knelt next to Kotori. Of everyone he had ever known in his life, she was the most steadfast; she did everything for others, sacrificing time and talent to nurture and bless, and was faithful in times of distress and grief. Her power, her link to the Astral World, had never faltered, because Kotori Mizuki’s faith never faltered even when hell erupted around her.

He reached out, took her burning face between his hands, and closed his eyes.

Healing was not a skill he had ever learned, though Astral believed it must draw from a similar source of concentration. He focused on that well of power that allowed him to Summon, envisioning a cool stream in the mountains. A steady trickling, refreshing and pure and clear. Water held the most healing properties of anything else on the earth—it could cleanse and hydrate, warm and cool the body, flush out toxins and circulate the blood—but it was also a destructive force if he couldn’t hold it back.

And gods, was it struggling to break free.

He had a newfound respect for Healers, he realized as he focused on allowing only a trickle of energy to leave his body. It was no wonder a Healer couldn’t Heal if their heart held a grudge. The mental focus required was exhausting Astral already, and he had only been at it for fifteen seconds.

But in that fifteen seconds, he didn’t hear a sound out of Black Mist.

Kotori shuddered violently and Astral had to put his body weight behind holding her head still. He shushed her and she stilled. He risked opening his eyes and found her staring back at him, eyes wide and dry lips parted. But she didn’t speak. She knew what was happening.

When the flood of energy threatening to escape his hold became too great, he severed the connection and slumped forward. His entire body felt like rice pudding.

“How do you feel?” he whispered.

“Hot,” Kotori whispered back.

He nodded, head heavy. “We’ll get you some… water…”

“Thanks…”

He leaned into her shoulder and closed his eyes.

* * *

 

The view from the top had been more disappointing than Koche envisioned. The entire river valley was shrouded in fog and it was difficult to see more than the faint outlines of hills in the distance. Even the sunset was a disappointment; the clouds, far from aiding the sunset's brilliant pastel colors, were so thick that they merely cast the sky in ugly hues of green and gray.

It had been set to be a clear night on the other side of the mountain.

He led the way down the mountain in the dark, tracking the amateur little mob with as much ease as if he were tracking a large bear. They had left their camp in a hurry sometime in the early afternoon, judging by the still-smoldering ashes they left behind, and appeared to head down the mountain with equal haste. Trails of manmade mudslides, freshly dried blood, feces, wads of chewed-up mint leaves and deer carcass, and footprints pointed the way toward where Koche would soon find and put an end to Prince Astral’s life as a refugee.

“My lord, news.”

Koche waved his company on. “Report.”

The officer bowed deeply and read from a crumpled sheet of paper. “They’re headed about two miles downriver from the first bridge, my lord. They’re counting on a ferry to shuttle them from the eastern riverbank to the western.”

“Why not take the bridge?”

“There’s a detachment of Lord Vector’s men guarding it, my lord. They must not fancy their chances.”

“Hm.” Koche peered through the misty trees. “How far from the river are we?”

“Fourteen hundred meters, my lord.”

“Is there an outcrop somewhere where I can see out to the river?”

“A hundred meters this way, my lord.”

Koche let the officer lead him through waist-deep seas of ferns and brambles, picking tiny insects from his rough skin with a feeling of mild disgust and wishing they could simply raze over the oppressive foliage; he would have ordered it if they had a little more time. The ferns gave way to rocks, and in no time they stood over the treeline on a narrow rock ledge. He peered through the darkness, mapping out the area in his mind. He’d never been to this part of the continent before—Durbe had been the one to map it out in person—but he had enough of a sense of direction even in the cloudy night to orient himself. To the west of the mountains was the Revise River, which flowed southwest into a confluence with the much larger Galaxy River. North of the western shore were a series of small villages and, most importantly, the Astral Palace. The palace had to be Prince Astral’s destination.

“That, there.” He pointed at an area where the fog seemed to shimmer. “The river?”

“Yes, my lord.”

He scanned the area along the riverbank, spotting three tiny dots of orange through the trees and fog. Fires. “How do ships pass the river when there are bridges in the way?”

The officer’s eyes squinted in confusion. “They fold, I believe, my lord.”

“Folding bridges.”

“Yes, my lord. There’s some kind of pulley, I understand. It lifts both sides upward and allows the ships to pass.”

“Hm.” Humans were certainly creative. But the folding bridges would present a problem if the humans intended to cross to the other side of the river with the ferries and take control of the bridges from the opposite side. Not that Koche believed this was their plan. They were, apparently, low in numbers, health, and morale. But he couldn’t take any chances, no matter how miniscule. The rabble did have a Dragoon, a swordmaster, and a summoner among them. “We’ll take their camp immediately. Double the march.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Koche stared down at the pinpricks of light from the camp below. Even if they were alerted to Koche’s presence, there was no way they would be able to stop him. And there was no chance to escape across the river. Koche was set on that.

* * *

“Captain.”

Astral lifted his head from Kotori’s shoulder. It felt like lifting a lead weight with his pinky finger. He hadn’t felt so exhausted since he’d transported almost a dozen people from the Sargasso Waste all the way into Arclight.

“Reina?” Yuma’s voice sounded even more weary, almost distant, though he was inches away resting on Kotori’s other shoulder. “What is it?”

“The ferry, Captain.” 

“The…” With a quiet moan, Yuma straightened up. Kotori barely stirred. “Is it waiting?”

“Nearly to shore.”

Yuma ran a hand under his nose, sniffed once, and nodded. “Get everyone together. Hurry.”


	75. Fire and Water

They never let her leave her prison. It didn’t matter how many times she performed, or how well, or how weak from the heat or the rain or the hunger she was; she was trapped, just like the animals forced to suffer in their cages, fed just enough to stay alive, but not enough to fight back.

She was a danger to herself and others, they told her, and she grew to believe every word of it. She burned her own home to the ground, had murdered her own parents. She deserved to be in her cage, paraded about like a spectacle, forced to use her powers to perform tricks for anyone who paid enough.

Dying was a wish, but they would force her to eat if she refused. Her own powers wouldn’t take her life, either. She had tried, more than once, to set herself aflame, and succeeded only in incinerating the rags they dressed her in between shows. When it came time to perform, they dressed her in doll clothes, painted her face, and put her in a scratchy golden wig to cover the filthy, matted mess of dull yellow that was her own hair. A life-sized doll, able to summon fire in the shapes of dancing horses and bears, able to juggle balls of fire, who couldn’t die at her own hand because fire didn’t harm her.

No one knew she was a Barian, except the ones who owned her. 

Every morning, they would bring her days-old food and a single small cup of water. They told her the same thing.

“Perform well for us today and maybe we’ll let you touch your gem.”

At first, she believed them. When they refused every night, she believed she hadn’t satisfied them. She acted out on days she had performed her best and was still denied the touch of her soul. But her cage was built specially to withstand her flames—with what, she didn’t know—and she only infuriated them. As punishment, they threw rocks and beat her from between the bars of her cage with sticks or rods.

After a while, she kept her mouth closed, her head down, and performed the tricks, day after day, withstanding insults and things thrown at her. Sometimes they threw spoiled food, which she would eat when she was alone to ease the hunger pains if she could keep it down. If they hurled water at her— _have a drink, witch—_ she waited until they were gone and squeezed it out of her clothing to drink.

She was always so hot.

* * *

 

It was a particularly scorching summer day in southern Arclight—at least, she thought it was Arclight, judging by the river to the southeast—and sweat drenched her wool dress. Someone had put salt in her morning water, making it undrinkable, and the lack of moisture in her tiny body was wearing on her. She could barely stand from the dizziness, let alone juggle, dance, or summon flames shaped like mountain cats.

“The witch looks thirsty,” one man jeered, and threw water at her. “Here’s some water, witch.”

When he turned away, she fell to her knees and wiped up the water on the floor of her cage with her hand, lapping it desperately from her skin. Sweat rolled from her forehead, dragging the heavy face paints in smears down her face. She couldn’t wipe it away. It might get on the dress and she would be denied food in the morning for ruining the cloth.

_Maybe I’ll die tonight,_  she thought. She shouldn’t be too hopeful. If she fainted, they would probably just hit her again, and she would wake up with no food or water tomorrow either way.

She wiped her hand over the floor, searching for any remaining water to soothe her parched lips, and froze when she saw two figures standing outside her cage, watching her.

Many humans and Barians alike came to these shows to jeer, but she had never seen a woman so tall as the one now bending to see into the cage. The woman next to her was probably a foot shorter, despite being of average height herself.

The scorching sunlight glinted off the silver jewelry standing out against the tall woman’s obsidian skin. She peered at the witch in the cage through dark eyes, no emotion in her face.

“She looks like a porcelain doll.”

The witch remained silent.

“That may be,” the other woman murmured, “but I feel suppressed power from her.” She reached through the bars of the cage, a small cup in her hand. The witch’s eyes darted from the cup to the woman’s face, where green marks stood out against her tawny skin. “Drink. You look thirsty.”

It wasn’t in the same voice as the countless humans who threw water in her face. It was gentle. And when the witch took it and pressed it to her lips, the water was cool and sweet, the greatest relief to her weak, burning body.

The two women continued to watch as she scooped the last drop of water from the bottom of the cup. The tall one remained emotionless, but the other had a look of curiosity, head tilted.

“I’d heard there was a witch here,” she said in a casual tone, “but you’re not a human at all, are you?”

The witch looked between the two women and decided they must be expecting an answer, so she shook her head.

“Barian?”

A nod.

“Where is your soul gem?”

Another shake.

The shorter woman—apparently in charge—jerked her head at the tall woman, who gave a curt nod before walking away. They stared at one another in silence, Ilya nursing the empty cup in her hands, wishing for more. There was a nearby commotion in the direction the tall woman had gone, though the witch couldn’t make out words.

Finally the other spoke. “What is your name?”

The witch opened her mouth but the only sound she could make was a scratchy growl. She hadn’t spoken in nearly a year. She coughed a few times and tried again, this time managing a semblance of a word.

“Ilya.”

“Ilya.” The woman nodded, and repeated the name a few times. It almost sounded foreign to hear her name spoken aloud for the first time in nearly a decade. “My name is Polara. The sullen one with me is Pherka… here she is.”

Sudden warmth coursed through Ilya’s body, so different from the exhausting heat she normally felt. It was as if she were being bathed in warm water and fed a decent meal, something she had only experienced twice since being in this traveling sideshow, only the comfort of it spread through her entire body. She was stronger than she had been in years—

Pherka held a hand through the bars of the cage, a small pink gem dangling from the silver chain, and Ilya lunged at it with years of desperation.

The moment her fingers touched it, she gasped at the raw flood of energy now coursing through her body.

“A Barian with your potential doesn’t need to be wasting in this cage,” Pherka said, and grabbed the lock on the door. With one fluid movement, she ripped it off. The door opened, and for the first time, Ilya had a chance at freedom.

Polara held out a hand. “Will you come with us?”

Ilya held her soul gem to her chest. “Where?” she whispered, voice raspy.

“Baria,” Polara replied.

“The… capitol?”

“Yes.”

Only elites lived in Baria. And these two Barian women were offering her a chance to join them there?

Ilya swallowed, suspicion building. “I won’t… perform… again.”

“You will not,” Polara agreed. “You see, Pherka and I… are two of the Seven Emperors of the Barian Kingdom.” She smiled at the look of bewilderment Ilya knew must be on her face. “Will you come back with us? We think the others would like to meet you.”

* * *

 

The rain had finally stopped. But Ilya paid little attention to what was happening outside the palace. Enough was happening within.

She touched the lacy fabric of her high-necked dress covering where Vector had grabbed her and thrown her into the table. Vector would have killed her, had Polara not interfered. There was no bruise on her true body, but she knew her porcelain human skin would be marred in purple and green the next time she turned back. She thought about going to find a Healer and ordering them to Heal her—she was certainly within her bounds to do so—but it seemed a waste, when she wasn’t planning on being human again for a while yet. And she had withstood much worse in her younger days. Next to the years of starvation, dehydration, and physical beatings in the traveling carnival, Vector was just one more monster she would find the proper revenge to exact upon.

She snapped shut the journal of Kazuma Tsukumo she had recovered from Durbe and set it on the foot table by her chair. Under any other circumstances, Alasco’s treachery would have taken precedent over everything else. Given that one lord had escaped prison, another was wandering the western mountains in the middle of the night without any knowledge of the events rapidly unfolding back home, and the third was hellbent on killing every one of the others, Ilya couldn’t find the energy to be concerned about Alasco’s use of a lethal plant that he had used to attempt to murder General Mizael. She couldn’t even be angry about the fact that this plant had once been used to try and kill  _her_.

“How the hell did I get so paranoid?” she said out loud.

It wasn’t the first time she’d wondered this question of herself, and it wasn’t really a mystery why she was. In her early days as a lord, she refused to show her back to anyone. At least three lords had died rather abruptly in the twenty years preceding her—as far as she was concerned, that was two too many for Barian lords—and her years spent cowing at the feet of more powerful people shaped her determination to make them bow at hers.

She made her way across the room, minimally decorated with nondescript rugs and light colored silk tapestries, and stopped at her mirror, framed in a simple oval of silver. Staring back at her was a pair of tired blue eyes, wrinkled and flaking at the corners. She ran a finger over the stress lines on her brow. She was ageing, and at a much faster rate than she had once thought; no wonder, when she had overextended her powers for too many years and drawn too heavily on the destructive nature of Barian World. Being a lord was no easy task, either; the stress was much greater on those who ruled.

_Don’t worry, Ilya,_  a small voice said,  _you needn’t worry about growing old._

Her eyes snapped up, to the edge of the mirror where a flash of black flitted behind her. Resisting the urge to turn around, she focused her energy into her hands, and studied the room behind her through the reflection.

There was no way anything or anyone should be in the room with her, but Ilya’s rampant paranoia dictated that she take no chances. She pretended to adjust her hair as she strained her eyes for any sign of the shadow in the room with her. She wouldn’t let it know that she was aware of its presence. She forced her breathing to steady.

_There_ —she spotted it sitting in the chair she had vacated. It was her favorite chair, with a firm cushion and a straight back to help with her posture, and she was filled with rage that it dared sit where she sat.

So she incinerated it.

The shadow—or whatever it was—flitted away from the chair, but she maintained a steady barrage of attacks, driving it back, back, back, toward the balcony door, where she got a good look at it. Vaguely humanoid, but definitely a shadow; it didn’t appear to be tangible.

“What the hell are—”

Her question was cut off with a scream as a second shadow flitted underneath her; she pirouetted to keep it from touching her but ended up stepping directly on the other, and her own shadow was swallowed up in it—

_I have to get out of this room,_ she thought frantically, and the nearest way out was right in front of her.

She sent a wave of fire toward the balcony door, shattering the glass, and jumped for the balcony. Tiny edges of superheated glass nicked her skin but she barely noticed, because as she looked down into the gardens, where Vector stood smiling the same way he must have when Vector’s predecessor Liam fell to his death, the blind panic was overtaken by a much stronger emotion: fury.

She knew whose shadows were tormenting her.

“I’m going to kill you,” she said, and jumped from the balcony into a portal.

Fire had always bent to her will and obeyed her every command. It was no different now, wrapping its wispy tendrils around her in a protective embrace before her feet even hit solid ground fifty feet below. She strode forward, flames winding their way around her hand and up her arm, wrapping her in flaming armor. Never before had the desire to kill overwhelmed her. She had killed, many times, but always out of pragmatism and protection, self-preservation and occasionally to make an example of her victim. But this monster in front of her had threatened her comfortable way of life, her kingdom,  _her_ , and she would eliminate this threat with the full force of her power. She had wanted to kill before, but now she thirsted for it.

The self-serving smirk in his eyes never faltered as she aimed bolts and spheres of fire at him. He dodged and deflected, feet dancing with an uncanny nimbleness as he backed away and she strode forward. She had the advantage here; she barely needed to think of what she wanted the fire to do before it responded, and he had to move and react. He would get tired before long and she would incinerate him.

“You seem agitated, Illy,” Vector called out as he hopped backward over a burning shrub. “Sorry, the little shadow monsters were the only way I could get you to come outside.”

She responded by setting aflame a rose bush next to Vector’s elbow. He didn’t react until he saw it almost catch his sleeve, and even then it was only to pull his arm away. There were few remaining plants lining the path that she could burn but even so, she had him trapped in the center of the walkway. And he had backed into a broken crystal fountain, a facet of the gardens that even he seemed to have forgotten, as he glanced down with surprise in his eyes before turning his head back to Ilya.

“Burn in hell,” she said, and set him ablaze.

He fell to his knees, shrieks echoing across the gardens and across the spires of crystal below. Clawed hands tore at his robes, shredding them into ashes; when he collapsed onto the ground and rolled over, his screams subsided, and Ilya released control of the flames.

She approached, cautiously. Though he was unmoving, she fully expected him to reach up and try to choke her. When she paused, far enough away that she could react should he stir, she registered two things. The first was that she smelled smoke from the burning plants around her, but the stench of burned flesh and clothing were absent. The second was that he had collapsed next to the crystal fountain, which was not operational but still had several inches of water sitting in it; it was rainwater, she realized, and surely someone who was burning would seek out anything to put out the fire. He couldn’t have missed the water, just inches away. And it had been too  _simple_ to drive him into a corner where he hadn’t even tried to fight back. His powers were weaker than hers, certainly, but he could have staved off her attack for a few moments, long enough to carry out his plan… whatever it had been.

But then, she thought, taking a step back from his smoking body, he never would have lured her out to the gardens without knowing exactly where he was going to lead her and how he was going to kill her.

Liam had died under mysterious circumstances, seemingly committing suicide by crashing through the door to his private balcony and flinging himself from the palace to the gardens below. No one had understood why; some palace staff swore to their dying day that they had heard him screaming at someone—or something—inside his quarters before they heard the crash. But there couldn’t have been anyone else in the room, because the door was locked from the inside. And it couldn’t have been foul play from Vector, who was in the gardens when Liam fell. There was no reason to suspect anything else… until she saw the shadow monsters in her room.

Then she understood, but it was too late.

She half-turned to meet the strike she knew was coming, but wasn’t quick enough, and Vector’s clawed hand wrapped around her neck for the second time that night as his other found the gem on her chest through her clothing.

“If you hadn’t gotten so wound up,” he whispered, claw wrapping around the gem, “you might have noticed sooner.”

And he ripped it from her body.

For only the second time in her life, she underwent the excruciating forced transformation into her human body. Her insides writhed and reformed, replacing Barian systems with human ones; skin disintegrated to leave behind bones that were covered in the soft human flesh; her already tortured breathing stopped abruptly while her human throat emerged. Worst of all was her mouth, which slit her face in half while tiny bones tore through her newly formed gums, and her jaw, which formed last and made a horrendous crunch as its hinge appeared.

She tried to scream through it all, but Vector’s grip on her throat made it difficult to breathe. She was already becoming lightheaded from the pain. But there was one thing she could do—she focused the trickle of energy still remaining in her body without touching her soul gem into her soft human hand and grabbed Vector’s wrist.

His scream was genuine this time, not the false act he had put on with the illusory Vector no longer lying motionless at the base of the fountain. But it wasn’t a scream of pain; he was furious, and he dragged Ilya by the neck with labored breaths—one step, two steps, three—

“You… killed Liam,” Ilya choked out. Her feet scraped against the ground helplessly as he pulled her along. She dug her nails tighter into his rough skin. “Scared… him to… death with…” Her mouth formed the word  _illusions_ but her breath gave out. Tiny dots of light filled her vision.

“I didn’t expect you to figure it out,” Vector hissed, and despite Ilya’s weakened flames burning his arm, he didn’t relinquish his grip. “You know, Ilya, you were the only one I was worried about. Your powers are greater than any of the rest of us, and you were snooping where you weren’t supposed to.”

The book, Ilya realized hazily. It was him, after all.

“The traitor Durbe was supposed to die at the pyre,” Vector whispered, “but no matter.  _You_  will still drown.”

For the first time since she had cowered in her prison at the traveling sideshow, Ilya knew the fear of death.

He plunged her face into the hot water of the fountain, which steamed violently as the weak flames covering Vector’s arm were extinguished. She struggled to push him away but he held her by the back of the neck and ground her face into the smooth crystal at the bottom of the fountain. Her lungs screamed for reprieve, for air; her legs kicked futilely against nothing as her hands reached up, out of the water, for something, anything to hold onto, something to pull herself up enough to take a breath—

—but there was  _nothing_.

_I’m dying,_  Ilya thought through the torture,  _God damn everything, I’m dying…_

Her hands slacked.

_…drowning…_

Her legs stilled.

_…drowning…_

She yearned to take a breath of water, to end her pain.

_Here’s some water, witch. Drink up._

No matter how hard she tried, she could never burn herself.

But she could try, and she would take Vector with her.

She reached her hand out of the water and focused with the sliver of self-awareness she had left in her body to catch herself on fire.

Vector’s hand jerked back as the water steamed angrily; she breached the few inches of water remaining in the fountain and gasped for air. But her flames superheated the acid rainwater, sending clouds of scalding steam all around her. The flames served only to intensify the heat, and she screamed from the pain of her skin blistering and peeling from her bones.

Her voice wasn’t alone. Vector crouched in the midst of the cloud, clutching his head in his hands, and his high shrieking was genuine. Though he was inches away from her, she could barely make out his form in the thick clouds around them. In only a few seconds, the steam choked out her scream and began burning her from the inside.

As the scalding steam melted away her soft human flesh and scalded her lungs, Ilya couldn’t help but marvel at the irony that the Witch of Baria, who had brought cities to their knees with her flames, would die not from drowning, but from burning.


End file.
